two_gentlemen_of_verona

Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus.

Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.

Were 't not affection chains thy tender days

To the sweet glances of thy honored love,

I rather would entreat thy company

To see the wonders of the world abroad

Than, living dully sluggardized at home,

Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

But since thou lov'st, love still and thrive therein,

Even as I would when I to love begin.

Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu.

Think on thy Proteus when thou haply seest

Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel.

Wish me partaker in thy happiness

When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger,

If ever danger do environ thee,

Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,

For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.

And on a love-book pray for my success?

Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee.

That's on some shallow story of deep love,

How young Leander crossed the Hellespont.

That's a deep story of a deeper love,

For he was more than over shoes in love.

'Tis true, for you are over boots in love,

And yet you never swam the Hellespont.

Over the boots? Nay, give me not the boots.

No, I will not, for it boots thee not.

What?

To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans,

Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading

moment's mirth

With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights;

If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;

If lost, why then a grievous labor won;

How ever, but a folly bought with wit,

Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.

So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove.

'Tis love you cavil at; I am not Love.

Love is your master, for he masters you;

And he that is so yoked by a fool

Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.

Yet writers say: as in the sweetest bud

The eating canker dwells, so eating love

Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

And writers say: as the most forward bud

Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,

Even so by love the young and tender wit

Is turned to folly, blasting in the bud,

Losing his verdure, even in the prime,

And all the fair effects of future hopes.

But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee

That art a votary to fond desire?

Once more adieu. My father at the road

Expects my coming, there to see me shipped.

And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.

Sweet Proteus, no. Now let us take our leave.

To Milan let me hear from thee by letters

Of thy success in love, and what news else

Betideth here in absence of thy friend.

And I likewise will visit thee with mine.

All happiness bechance to thee in Milan.

As much to you at home. And so farewell.

He after honor hunts, I after love.

He leaves his friends, to dignify them more;

I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love.

Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me,

Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,

War with good counsel, set the world at nought;

Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.

Sir Proteus, 'save you. Saw you my master?

But now he parted hence to embark for Milan.

Twenty to one, then, he is shipped already,

And I have played the sheep in losing him.

Indeed a sheep doth very often stray,

An if the shepherd be awhile away.

You conclude that my master is a shepherd,

then, and I a sheep?

I do.

Why, then my horns are his horns, whether I

wake or sleep.

A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.

This proves me still a sheep.

True, and thy master a shepherd.

Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance.

It shall go hard but I'll prove it by another.

The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the

sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my

master seeks not me. Therefore I am no sheep.

The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the

shepherd for food follows not the sheep. Thou for

wages followest thy master; thy master for wages

follows not thee. Therefore thou art a sheep.

Such another proof will make me cry baa.

But dost thou hear? Gav'st thou my letter to

Julia?

Ay, sir. I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a

laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a

lost mutton, nothing for my labor.

Here's too small a pasture for such store of

muttons.

If the ground be overcharged, you were best

stick her.

Nay, in that you are astray; 'twere best pound

you.

Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for

carrying your letter.

You mistake; I mean the pound, a pinfold.

From a pound to a pin? Fold it over and over,

'Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your

lover.

But what said she?

Ay.

Nod--Ay. Why, that's noddy.

You mistook, sir. I say she did nod, and you ask

me if she did nod, and I say ay.

And that set together is noddy.

Now you have taken the pains to set it together,

take it for your pains.

No, no, you shall have it for bearing the letter.

Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.

Why, sir, how do you bear with me?

Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly, having nothing

but the word noddy for my pains.

Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.

And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.

Come, come, open the matter in brief. What

said she?

Open your purse, that the money and the matter

may be both at once delivered.

Well, sir, here is for your

pains. What said she?

Truly, sir, I think you'll

hardly win her.

Why? Couldst thou perceive so much from

her?

Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her, no,

not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter.

And being so hard to me that brought your mind, I

fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your mind.

Give her no token but stones, for she's as hard as

steel.

What said she? Nothing?

No, not so much as Take this for thy pains.

To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have

testerned me. In requital whereof, henceforth

carry your letters yourself. And so, sir, I'll commend

you to my master.

Go, go, begone, to save your ship from wrack,

Which cannot perish having thee aboard,

Being destined to a drier death on shore.

I must go send some better messenger.

I fear my Julia would not deign my lines,

Receiving them from such a worthless post.

But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,

Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?

Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully.

Of all the fair resort of gentlemen

That every day with parle encounter me,

In thy opinion which is worthiest love?

Please you repeat their names, I'll show my mind

According to my shallow simple skill.

What think'st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?

As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and fine;

But, were I you, he never should be mine.

What think'st thou of the rich Mercatio?

Well of his wealth, but of himself so-so.

What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus?

Lord, Lord, to see what folly reigns in us!

How now? What means this passion at his name?

Pardon, dear madam, 'tis a passing shame

That I, unworthy body as I am,

Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.

Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest?

Then thus: of many good, I think him best.

Your reason?

I have no other but a woman's reason:

I think him so because I think him so.

And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him?

Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.

Why, he of all the rest hath never moved me.

Yet he of all the rest I think best loves you.

His little speaking shows his love but small.

Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.

They do not love that do not show their love.

O, they love least that let men know their love.

I would I knew his mind.

Peruse this paper,

madam.

To Julia.--Say from whom.

That the contents will show.

Say, say who gave it thee.

Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from

Proteus.

He would have given it you, but I, being in the way,

Did in your name receive it. Pardon the fault, I pray.

Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!

Dare you presume to harbor wanton lines?

To whisper and conspire against my youth?

Now trust me, 'tis an office of great worth,

And you an officer fit for the place.

There, take the paper; see it be returned,

Or else return no more into my sight.

To plead for love deserves more fee than hate.

Will you be gone?

That you may ruminate.

And yet I would I had o'erlooked the letter.

It were a shame to call her back again

And pray her to a fault for which I chid her.

What fool is she that knows I am a maid

And would not force the letter to my view,

Since maids in modesty say no to that

Which they would have the profferer construe ay!

Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love

That like a testy babe will scratch the nurse

And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod!

How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,

When willingly I would have had her here!

How angerly I taught my brow to frown,

When inward joy enforced my heart to smile!

My penance is to call Lucetta back

And ask remission for my folly past.--

What ho, Lucetta!

What would your Ladyship?

Is 't near dinner time?

I would it were,

That you might kill your stomach on your meat

And not upon your maid.

What is 't that you took up so gingerly?

Nothing.

Why didst thou stoop, then?

To take a paper up that I let fall.

And is that paper nothing?

Nothing concerning me.

Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

Madam, it will not lie where it concerns

Unless it have a false interpreter.

Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.

That I might sing it, madam, to a tune,

Give me a note. Your Ladyship can set--

As little by such toys as may be possible.

Best sing it to the tune of Light o' Love.

It is too heavy for so light a tune.

Heavy? Belike it hath some burden then?

Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it.

And why not you?

I cannot reach so high.

Let's see your song. How now, minion!

Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out.

And yet methinks I do not like this tune.

You do not?

No, madam, 'tis too sharp.

You, minion, are too saucy.

Nay, now you are too flat

And mar the concord with too harsh a descant.

There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.

The mean is drowned with your unruly bass.

Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.

Here is a coil with protestation.

Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie.

You would be fing'ring them to anger me.

She makes it strange, but she would be best pleased

To be so angered with another letter.

Nay, would I were so angered with the same!

O hateful hands, to tear such loving words!

Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey

And kill the bees that yield it with your stings!

I'll kiss each several paper for amends.

Look, here is writ kind Julia. Unkind Julia,

As in revenge of thy ingratitude,

I throw thy name against the bruising stones,

Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.

And here is writ love-wounded Proteus.

Poor wounded name, my bosom as a bed

Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly healed,

And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.

But twice or thrice was Proteus written down.

Be calm, good wind. Blow not a word away

Till I have found each letter in the letter

Except mine own name. That some whirlwind bear

Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock

And throw it thence into the raging sea.

Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ:

Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,

To the sweet Julia. That I'll tear away--

And yet I will not, sith so prettily

He couples it to his complaining names.

Thus will I fold them one upon another.

Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.

Madam, dinner is ready, and your father stays.

Well, let us go.

What, shall these papers lie like telltales here?

If you respect them, best to take them up.

Nay, I was taken up for laying them down.

Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

I see you have a month's mind to them.

Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;

I see things too, although you judge I wink.

Come, come, will 't please you go?

Tell me, Pantino, what sad talk was that

Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?

'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.

Why, what of him?

He wondered that your Lordship

Would suffer him to spend his youth at home

While other men, of slender reputation,

Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:

Some to the wars to try their fortune there,

Some to discover islands far away,

Some to the studious universities.

For any or for all these exercises

He said that Proteus your son was meet,

And did request me to importune you

To let him spend his time no more at home,

Which would be great impeachment to his age

In having known no travel in his youth.

Nor need'st thou much importune me to that

Whereon this month I have been hammering.

I have considered well his loss of time

And how he cannot be a perfect man,

Not being tried and tutored in the world.

Experience is by industry achieved

And perfected by the swift course of time.

Then tell me whither were I best to send him.

I think your Lordship is not ignorant

How his companion, youthful Valentine,

Attends the Emperor in his royal court.

I know it well.

'Twere good, I think, your Lordship sent him thither.

There shall he practice tilts and tournaments,

Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,

And be in eye of every exercise

Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.

I like thy counsel. Well hast thou advised,

And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it,

The execution of it shall make known.

Even with the speediest expedition

I will dispatch him to the Emperor's court.

Tomorrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso,

With other gentlemen of good esteem,

Are journeying to salute the Emperor

And to commend their service to his will.

Good company. With them shall Proteus go.

And in good time! Now will we break with him.

Sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life!

Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;

Here is her oath for love, her honor's pawn.

O, that our fathers would applaud our loves

To seal our happiness with their consents.

O heavenly Julia!

How now? What letter are you reading there?

May 't please your Lordship, 'tis a word or two

Of commendations sent from Valentine,

Delivered by a friend that came from him.

Lend me the letter. Let me see what news.

There is no news, my lord, but that he writes

How happily he lives, how well beloved

And daily graced by the Emperor,

Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.

And how stand you affected to his wish?

As one relying on your Lordship's will,

And not depending on his friendly wish.

My will is something sorted with his wish.

Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed,

For what I will, I will, and there an end.

I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time

With Valentinus in the Emperor's court.

What maintenance he from his friends receives,

Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.

Tomorrow be in readiness to go.

Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.

My lord, I cannot be so soon provided.

Please you deliberate a day or two.

Look what thou want'st shall be sent after thee.

No more of stay. Tomorrow thou must go.--

Come on, Pantino; you shall be employed

To hasten on his expedition.

Thus have I shunned the fire for fear of burning

And drenched me in the sea, where I am drowned.

I feared to show my father Julia's letter

Lest he should take exceptions to my love,

And with the vantage of mine own excuse

Hath he excepted most against my love.

O, how this spring of love resembleth

The uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away.

Sir Proteus, your father calls for you.

He is in haste. Therefore, I pray you, go.

Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto.

And yet a thousand times it answers no.

Sir, your glove.

Not mine. My gloves are on.

Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one.

Ha? Let me see. Ay, give it me, it's mine.

Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!

Ah, Sylvia, Sylvia!

Madam Sylvia! Madam Sylvia!

How now, sirrah?

She is not within hearing, sir.

Why, sir, who bade you call her?

Your Worship, sir, or else I mistook.

Well, you'll still be too forward.

And yet I was last chidden for being too slow.

Go to, sir. Tell me, do you know Madam

Sylvia?

She that your Worship loves?

Why, how know you that I am in love?

Marry, by these special marks: first, you have

learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms like

a malcontent; to relish a love song like a robin

redbreast; to walk alone like one that had the

pestilence; to sigh like a schoolboy that had lost his

ABC; to weep like a young wench that had buried

her grandam; to fast like one that takes diet; to

watch like one that fears robbing; to speak puling

like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when

you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked,

to walk like one of the lions. When you fasted, it was

presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it

was for want of money. And now you are metamorphosed

with a mistress, that when I look on you, I

can hardly think you my master.

Are all these things perceived in me?

They are all perceived without you.

Without me? They cannot.

Without you? Nay, that's certain, for without

you were so simple, none else would. But you are so

without these follies, that these follies are within

you and shine through you like the water in an

urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a

physician to comment on your malady.

But tell me, dost thou know my Lady

Sylvia?

She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper?

Hast thou observed that? Even she I mean.

Why, sir, I know her not.

Dost thou know her by my gazing on her

and yet know'st her not?

Is she not hard-favored, sir?

Not so fair, boy, as well-favored.

Sir, I know that well enough.

What dost thou know?

That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favored.

I mean that her beauty is exquisite but her

favor infinite.

That's because the one is painted, and the other

out of all count.

How painted? And how out of count?

Marry, sir, so painted to make her fair, that no

man counts of her beauty.

How esteem'st thou me? I account of her

beauty.

You never saw her since she was deformed.

How long hath she been deformed?

Ever since you loved her.

I have loved her ever since I saw her, and

still I see her beautiful.

If you love her, you cannot see her.

Why?

Because love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes,

or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to

have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going

ungartered!

What should I see then?

Your own present folly and her passing deformity;

for he, being in love, could not see to garter his

hose, and you, being in love, cannot see to put on

your hose.

Belike, boy, then you are in love, for last

morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.

True, sir, I was in love with my bed. I thank you,

you swinged me for my love, which makes me the

bolder to chide you for yours.

In conclusion, I stand affected to her.

I would you were set, so your affection would

cease.

Last night she enjoined me to write some

lines to one she loves.

And have you?

I have.

Are they not lamely writ?

No, boy, but as well as I can do them.

Peace, here she comes.

O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet!

Now will he interpret to her.

Madam and mistress, a thousand

good-morrows.

O, give ye good ev'n! Here's a million of

manners.

Sir Valentine, and servant, to you two

thousand.

He should give her interest, and she

gives it him.

As you enjoined me, I have writ your letter

Unto the secret, nameless friend of yours,

Which I was much unwilling to proceed in

But for my duty to your Ladyship.

I thank you, gentle servant, 'tis very clerkly done.

Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off,

For, being ignorant to whom it goes,

I writ at random, very doubtfully.

Perchance you think too much of so much pains?

No, madam. So it stead you, I will write,

Please you command, a thousand times as much,

And yet--

A pretty period. Well, I guess the sequel;

And yet I will not name it And yet I care not.

And yet take this again.

And yet I thank you,

Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.

And yet you will; and yet another yet.

What means your Ladyship? Do you not like it?

Yes, yes, the lines are very quaintly writ,

But, since unwillingly, take them again.

Nay, take them.

Madam, they are for you.

Ay, ay. You writ them, sir, at my request,

But I will none of them. They are for you.

I would have had them writ more movingly.

Please you, I'll write your Ladyship another.

And when it's writ, for my sake read it over,

And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.

If it please me, madam? What then?

Why, if it please you, take it for your labor.

And so good-morrow, servant.

O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible

As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a

steeple!

My master sues to her, and she hath taught her

suitor,

He being her pupil, to become her tutor.

O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better?

That my master, being scribe, to himself should

write the letter?

How now, sir? What, are you reasoning

with yourself?

Nay, I was rhyming. 'Tis you that have the

reason.

To do what?

To be a spokesman from Madam Sylvia.

To whom?

To yourself. Why, she woos you by a figure.

What figure?

By a letter, I should say.

Why, she hath not writ to me!

What need she when she hath made you write

to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest?

No, believe me.

No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive

her earnest?

She gave me none, except an angry word.

Why, she hath given you a letter.

That's the letter I writ to her friend.

And that letter hath she delivered, and there an

end.

I would it were no worse.

I'll warrant you, 'tis as well.

For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty

Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply,

Or fearing else some messenger that might her

mind discover,

Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto

her lover.

All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why

muse you, sir? 'Tis dinnertime.

I have dined.

Ay, but hearken, sir, though the chameleon love

can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by

my victuals and would fain have meat. O, be not like

your mistress! Be moved, be moved.

Have patience, gentle Julia.

I must where is no remedy.

When possibly I can, I will return.

If you turn not, you will return the sooner.

Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake.

Why, then we'll make exchange. Here, take you this.

And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

Here is my hand for my true constancy.

And when that hour o'erslips me in the day

Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,

The next ensuing hour some foul mischance

Torment me for my love's forgetfulness.

My father stays my coming. Answer not.

The tide is now--nay, not thy tide of tears;

That tide will stay me longer than I should.

Julia, farewell.

What, gone without a word?

Ay, so true love should do. It cannot speak,

For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Sir Proteus, you are stayed for.

Go. I come, I come.

Alas, this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.

Nay,'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping.

All the kind of the Lances have this very fault. I have

received my proportion like the Prodigious Son and

am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's court. I

think Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that

lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my

sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing

her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity,

yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He

is a stone, a very pibble stone, and has no more pity

in him than a dog. A Jew would have wept to have

seen our parting. Why, my grandam, having no

eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting.

Nay, I'll show you the manner of it.

This shoe is my father. No, this left shoe is

my father; no, no, this left shoe is my mother. Nay,

that cannot be so neither. Yes, it is so, it is so; it hath

the worser sole. This shoe with the hole in it is my

mother; and this my father. A vengeance on 't, there

'tis! Now sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she

is as white as a lily and as small as a wand. This hat

is Nan, our maid. I am the dog. No, the dog is

himself, and I am the dog. O, the dog is me, and I

am myself. Ay, so, so. Now come I to my father:

Father, your blessing. Now should not the shoe

speak a word for weeping. Now should I kiss my

father. Well, he weeps on. Now

come I to my mother. O, that she could speak now

like a wold woman! Well, I kiss her.

Why, there 'tis; here's my mother's

breath up and down. Now come I to my sister. Mark

the moan she makes! Now the dog all this while

sheds not a tear nor speaks a word. But see how I

lay the dust with my tears.

Lance, away, away! Aboard. Thy master is

shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What's

the matter? Why weep'st thou, man? Away, ass.

You'll lose the tide if you tarry any longer.

It is no matter if the tied were lost, for it is the

unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

What's the unkindest tide?

Why, he that's tied here, Crab my dog.

Tut, man. I mean thou 'lt lose the flood and, in

losing the flood, lose thy voyage and, in losing thy

voyage, lose thy master and, in losing thy master,

lose thy service and, in losing thy service--

Why dost thou stop my

mouth?

For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

Where should I lose my tongue?

In thy tale.

In thy tail!

Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master,

and the service, and the tied. Why, man, if the river

were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the

wind were down, I could drive the boat with my

sighs.

Come. Come away, man. I was sent to call

thee.

Sir, call me what thou dar'st.

Wilt thou go?

Well, I will go.

Servant!

Mistress?

Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

Ay, boy, it's for love.

Not of you.

Of my mistress, then.

'Twere good you knocked him.

Servant, you are sad.

Indeed, madam, I seem so.

Seem you that you are not?

Haply I do.

So do counterfeits.

So do you.

What seem I that I am not?

Wise.

What instance of the contrary?

Your folly.

And how quote you my folly?

I quote it in your jerkin.

My jerkin is a doublet.

Well, then, I'll double your folly.

How!

What, angry, Sir Thurio? Do you change color?

Give him leave, madam. He is a kind of

chameleon.

That hath more mind to feed on your blood

than live in your air.

You have said, sir.

Ay, sir, and done too for this time.

I know it well, sir. You always end ere you

begin.

A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly

shot off.

'Tis indeed, madam. We thank the giver.

Who is that, servant?

Yourself, sweet lady, for you gave the fire.

Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your Ladyship's

looks and spends what he borrows kindly in your

company.

Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall

make your wit bankrupt.

I know it well, sir. You have an exchequer

of words and, I think, no other treasure to give your

followers, for it appears by their bare liveries that

they live by your bare words.

No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my

father.

Now, daughter Sylvia, you are hard beset.--

Sir Valentine, your father is in good health.

What say you to a letter from your friends

Of much good news?

My lord, I will be thankful

To any happy messenger from thence.

Know you Don Antonio, your countryman?

Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman

To be of worth and worthy estimation,

And not without desert so well reputed.

Hath he not a son?

Ay, my good lord, a son that well deserves

The honor and regard of such a father.

You know him well?

I knew him as myself, for from our infancy

We have conversed and spent our hours together,

And though myself have been an idle truant,

Omitting the sweet benefit of time

To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,

Yet hath Sir Proteus--for that's his name--

Made use and fair advantage of his days:

His years but young, but his experience old;

His head unmellowed, but his judgment ripe;

And in a word--for far behind his worth

Comes all the praises that I now bestow--

He is complete in feature and in mind,

With all good grace to grace a gentleman.

Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,

He is as worthy for an empress' love,

As meet to be an emperor's counselor.

Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me

With commendation from great potentates,

And here he means to spend his time awhile.

I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.

Should I have wished a thing, it had been he.

Welcome him then according to his worth.

Sylvia, I speak to you--and you, Sir Thurio.

For Valentine, I need not cite him to it.

I will send him hither to you presently.

This is the gentleman I told your Ladyship

Had come along with me but that his mistress

Did hold his eyes locked in her crystal looks.

Belike that now she hath enfranchised them

Upon some other pawn for fealty.

Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still.

Nay, then, he should be blind, and being blind

How could he see his way to seek out you?

Why, lady, love hath twenty pair of eyes.

They say that Love hath not an eye at all.

To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself.

Upon a homely object, Love can wink.

Have done, have done. Here comes the gentleman.

Welcome, dear Proteus.--Mistress, I beseech you

Confirm his welcome with some special favor.

His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,

If this be he you oft have wished to hear from.

Mistress, it is. Sweet lady, entertain him

To be my fellow-servant to your Ladyship.

Too low a mistress for so high a servant.

Not so, sweet lady, but too mean a servant

To have a look of such a worthy mistress.

Leave off discourse of disability.

Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.

My duty will I boast of, nothing else.

And duty never yet did want his meed.

Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.

I'll die on him that says so but yourself.

That you are welcome?

That you are worthless.

Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.

I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir

Thurio,

Go with me.--Once more, new servant, welcome.

I'll leave you to confer of home affairs.

When you have done, we look to hear from you.

We'll both attend upon your Ladyship.

Now tell me, how do all from whence you came?

Your friends are well and have them much

commended.

And how do yours?

I left them all in health.

How does your lady? And how thrives your love?

My tales of love were wont to weary you.

I know you joy not in a love discourse.

Ay, Proteus, but that life is altered now.

I have done penance for contemning Love,

Whose high imperious thoughts have punished me

With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,

With nightly tears, and daily heartsore sighs,

For in revenge of my contempt of love,

Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes

And made them watchers of mine own heart's

sorrow.

O gentle Proteus, Love's a mighty lord

And hath so humbled me as I confess

There is no woe to his correction,

Nor, to his service, no such joy on Earth.

Now, no discourse except it be of love.

Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep

Upon the very naked name of Love.

Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.

Was this the idol that you worship so?

Even she. And is she not a heavenly saint?

No, but she is an earthly paragon.

Call her divine.

I will not flatter her.

O, flatter me, for love delights in praises.

When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills,

And I must minister the like to you.

Then speak the truth by her; if not divine,

Yet let her be a principality,

Sovereign to all the creatures on the Earth.

Except my mistress.

Sweet, except not any,

Except thou wilt except against my love.

Have I not reason to prefer mine own?

And I will help thee to prefer her too:

She shall be dignified with this high honor--

To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth

Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss

And, of so great a favor growing proud,

Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower

And make rough winter everlastingly.

Why, Valentine, what braggartism is this?

Pardon me, Proteus, all I can is nothing

To her whose worth makes other worthies

nothing.

She is alone--

Then let her alone.

Not for the world! Why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.

Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,

Because thou seest me dote upon my love.

My foolish rival, that her father likes

Only for his possessions are so huge,

Is gone with her along, and I must after,

For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.

But she loves you?

Ay, and we are betrothed; nay more, our marriage

hour,

With all the cunning manner of our flight

Determined of: how I must climb her window,

The ladder made of cords, and all the means

Plotted and 'greed on for my happiness.

Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,

In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.

Go on before. I shall inquire you forth.

I must unto the road to disembark

Some necessaries that I needs must use,

And then I'll presently attend you.

Will you make haste?

I will.

Even as one heat another heat expels,

Or as one nail by strength drives out another,

So the remembrance of my former love

Is by a newer object quite forgotten.

Is it mine eye, or Valentine's praise,

Her true perfection, or my false transgression,

That makes me reasonless to reason thus?

She is fair, and so is Julia that I love--

That I did love, for now my love is thawed,

Which like a waxen image 'gainst a fire

Bears no impression of the thing it was.

Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,

And that I love him not as I was wont.

O, but I love his lady too too much,

And that's the reason I love him so little.

How shall I dote on her with more advice

That thus without advice begin to love her?

'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason's light;

But when I look on her perfections,

There is no reason but I shall be blind.

If I can check my erring love, I will;

If not, to compass her I'll use my skill.

Lance, by mine honesty, welcome to Padua.

Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not

welcome. I reckon this always: that a man is never

undone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a

place till some certain shot be paid and the Hostess

say welcome.

Come on, you madcap. I'll to the alehouse with

you presently, where, for one shot of five pence,

thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah,

how did thy master part with Madam Julia?

Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted

very fairly in jest.

But shall she marry him?

No.

How then? Shall he marry her?

No, neither.

What, are they broken?

No, they are both as whole as a fish.

Why then, how stands the matter with them?

Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it

stands well with her.

What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.

What a block art thou that thou canst not! My

staff understands me.

What thou sayst?

Ay, and what I do too. Look thee, I'll but lean,

and my staff understands me.

It stands under thee indeed.

Why, stand under and understand is all

one.

But tell me true, will 't be a match?

Ask my dog. If he say Ay, it will; if he say

No, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it

will.

The conclusion is, then, that it will.

Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but

by a parable.

'Tis well that I get it so. But, Lance, how sayst

thou that my master is become a notable lover?

I never knew him otherwise.

Than how?

A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.

Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak'st me.

Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master.

I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.

Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn

himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the

alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not

worth the name of a Christian.

Why?

Because thou hast not so much charity in thee

as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?

At thy service.

To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn.

To love fair Sylvia, shall I be forsworn.

To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn.

And ev'n that power which gave me first my oath

Provokes me to this threefold perjury.

Love bade me swear, and love bids me forswear.

O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinned,

Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it.

At first I did adore a twinkling star,

But now I worship a celestial sun;

Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken,

And he wants wit that wants resolved will

To learn his wit t' exchange the bad for better.

Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad

Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferred

With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.

I cannot leave to love, and yet I do.

But there I leave to love where I should love.

Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose;

If I keep them, I needs must lose myself;

If I lose them, thus find I by their loss:

For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Sylvia.

I to myself am dearer than a friend,

For love is still most precious in itself,

And Sylvia--witness heaven that made her fair--

Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.

I will forget that Julia is alive,

Rememb'ring that my love to her is dead;

And Valentine I'll hold an enemy,

Aiming at Sylvia as a sweeter friend.

I cannot now prove constant to myself

Without some treachery used to Valentine.

This night he meaneth with a corded ladder

To climb celestial Sylvia's chamber window,

Myself in counsel his competitor.

Now presently I'll give her father notice

Of their disguising and pretended flight,

Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine,

For Thurio he intends shall wed his daughter.

But Valentine being gone, I'll quickly cross

By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull proceeding.

Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,

As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift.

Counsel, Lucetta. Gentle girl, assist me;

And ev'n in kind love I do conjure thee--

Who art the table wherein all my thoughts

Are visibly charactered and engraved--

To lesson me and tell me some good mean

How with my honor I may undertake

A journey to my loving Proteus.

Alas, the way is wearisome and long.

A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary

To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps;

Much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly,

And when the flight is made to one so dear,

Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.

Better forbear till Proteus make return.

O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?

Pity the dearth that I have pined in

By longing for that food so long a time.

Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,

Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow

As seek to quench the fire of love with words.

I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,

But qualify the fire's extreme rage,

Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.

The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns.

The current that with gentle murmur glides,

Thou know'st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage,

But when his fair course is not hindered,

He makes sweet music with th' enameled stones,

Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge

He overtaketh in his pilgrimage;

And so by many winding nooks he strays

With willing sport to the wild ocean.

Then let me go and hinder not my course.

I'll be as patient as a gentle stream

And make a pastime of each weary step

Till the last step have brought me to my love,

And there I'll rest as after much turmoil

A blessed soul doth in Elysium.

But in what habit will you go along?

Not like a woman, for I would prevent

The loose encounters of lascivious men.

Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds

As may beseem some well-reputed page.

Why, then, your Ladyship must cut your hair.

No, girl, I'll knit it up in silken strings

With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots.

To be fantastic may become a youth

Of greater time than I shall show to be.

What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches?

That fits as well as Tell me, good my lord,

What compass will you wear your farthingale?

Why, ev'n what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta.

You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.

Out, out, Lucetta. That will be ill-favored.

A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin

Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.

Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have

What thou think'st meet and is most mannerly.

But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me

For undertaking so unstaid a journey?

I fear me it will make me scandalized.

If you think so, then stay at home and go not.

Nay, that I will not.

Then never dream on infamy, but go.

If Proteus like your journey when you come,

No matter who's displeased when you are gone.

I fear me he will scarce be pleased withal.

That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear.

A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,

And instances of infinite of love

Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

All these are servants to deceitful men.

Base men that use them to so base effect!

But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth.

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,

His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,

His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,

His heart as far from fraud as heaven from Earth.

Pray heav'n he prove so when you come to him.

Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong

To bear a hard opinion of his truth.

Only deserve my love by loving him.

And presently go with me to my chamber

To take a note of what I stand in need of

To furnish me upon my longing journey.

All that is mine I leave at thy dispose,

My goods, my lands, my reputation.

Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.

Come, answer not, but to it presently.

I am impatient of my tarriance.

Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;

We have some secrets to confer about.

Now tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?

My gracious lord, that which I would discover

The law of friendship bids me to conceal,

But when I call to mind your gracious favors

Done to me, undeserving as I am,

My duty pricks me on to utter that

Which else no worldly good should draw from me.

Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine my friend

This night intends to steal away your daughter;

Myself am one made privy to the plot.

I know you have determined to bestow her

On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates,

And should she thus be stol'n away from you,

It would be much vexation to your age.

Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose

To cross my friend in his intended drift

Than, by concealing it, heap on your head

A pack of sorrows which would press you down,

Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.

Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,

Which to requite command me while I live.

This love of theirs myself have often seen,

Haply when they have judged me fast asleep,

And oftentimes have purposed to forbid

Sir Valentine her company and my court.

But fearing lest my jealous aim might err

And so, unworthily, disgrace the man--

A rashness that I ever yet have shunned--

I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find

That which thyself hast now disclosed to me.

And that thou mayst perceive my fear of this,

Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,

I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,

The key whereof myself have ever kept,

And thence she cannot be conveyed away.

Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean

How he her chamber-window will ascend

And with a corded ladder fetch her down;

For which the youthful lover now is gone,

And this way comes he with it presently,

Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.

But, good my lord, do it so cunningly

That my discovery be not aimed at;

For love of you, not hate unto my friend,

Hath made me publisher of this pretense.

Upon mine honor, he shall never know

That I had any light from thee of this.

Adieu, my lord. Sir Valentine is coming.

Sir Valentine, whither away so fast?

Please it your Grace, there is a messenger

That stays to bear my letters to my friends,

And I am going to deliver them.

Be they of much import?

The tenor of them doth but signify

My health and happy being at your court.

Nay then, no matter. Stay with me awhile;

I am to break with thee of some affairs

That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret.

'Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought

To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter.

I know it well, my lord, and sure the match

Were rich and honorable. Besides, the gentleman

Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities

Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.

Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him?

No. Trust me, she is peevish, sullen, froward,

Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty,

Neither regarding that she is my child

Nor fearing me as if I were her father;

And may I say to thee, this pride of hers,

Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her,

And where I thought the remnant of mine age

Should have been cherished by her childlike duty,

I now am full resolved to take a wife

And turn her out to who will take her in.

Then let her beauty be her wedding dower,

For me and my possessions she esteems not.

What would your Grace have me to do in this?

There is a lady in Verona here

Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy,

And nought esteems my aged eloquence.

Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor--

For long agone I have forgot to court;

Besides, the fashion of the time is changed--

How and which way I may bestow myself

To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.

Win her with gifts if she respect not words;

Dumb jewels often in their silent kind

More than quick words do move a woman's mind.

But she did scorn a present that I sent her.

A woman sometime scorns what best contents her.

Send her another; never give her o'er,

For scorn at first makes after-love the more.

If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,

But rather to beget more love in you.

If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone,

Forwhy the fools are mad if left alone.

Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;

For get you gone she doth not mean away.

Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;

Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.

That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man

If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

But she I mean is promised by her friends

Unto a youthful gentleman of worth

And kept severely from resort of men,

That no man hath access by day to her.

Why, then, I would resort to her by night.

Ay, but the doors be locked and keys kept safe,

That no man hath recourse to her by night.

What lets but one may enter at her window?

Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,

And built so shelving that one cannot climb it

Without apparent hazard of his life.

Why, then a ladder quaintly made of cords

To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,

Would serve to scale another Hero's tower,

So bold Leander would adventure it.

Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,

Advise me where I may have such a ladder.

When would you use it? Pray sir, tell me that.

This very night; for love is like a child

That longs for everything that he can come by.

By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder.

But hark thee: I will go to her alone;

How shall I best convey the ladder thither?

It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it

Under a cloak that is of any length.

A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn?

Ay, my good lord.

Then let me see thy cloak;

I'll get me one of such another length.

Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.

How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?

I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.

What letter is this same? What's here? To

Sylvia.

And here an engine fit for my proceeding.

I'll be so bold to break the seal for once.

My thoughts do harbor with my Sylvia nightly,

And slaves they are to me that send them flying.

O, could their master come and go as lightly,

Himself would lodge where, senseless, they are

lying.

My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them,

While I, their king, that thither them importune,

Do curse the grace that with such grace hath blest

them,

Because myself do want my servants' fortune.

I curse myself, for they are sent by me,

That they should harbor where their lord should be.

What's here?

Sylvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.

'Tis so. And here's the ladder for the purpose.

Why, Phaeton--for thou art Merops' son--

Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car

And with thy daring folly burn the world?

Wilt thou reach stars because they shine on thee?

Go, base intruder, overweening slave,

Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates

And think my patience, more than thy desert,

Is privilege for thy departure hence.

Thank me for this more than for all the favors

Which all too much I have bestowed on thee.

But if thou linger in my territories

Longer than swiftest expedition

Will give thee time to leave our royal court,

By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love

I ever bore my daughter or thyself.

Begone. I will not hear thy vain excuse,

But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed from hence.

And why not death, rather than living torment?

To die is to be banished from myself,

And Sylvia is myself; banished from her

Is self from self--a deadly banishment.

What light is light if Sylvia be not seen?

What joy is joy if Sylvia be not by--

Unless it be to think that she is by

And feed upon the shadow of perfection?

Except I be by Sylvia in the night,

There is no music in the nightingale.

Unless I look on Sylvia in the day,

There is no day for me to look upon.

She is my essence, and I leave to be

If I be not by her fair influence

Fostered, illumined, cherished, kept alive.

I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom;

Tarry I here, I but attend on death,

But fly I hence, I fly away from life.

Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.

So-ho, so-ho!

What seest thou?

Him we go to find. There's not a hair on 's head

but 'tis a Valentine.

Valentine?

No.

Who then? His spirit?

Neither.

What then?

Nothing.

Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

Who wouldst thou strike?

Nothing.

Villain, forbear.

Why, sir, I'll strike nothing. I pray you--

Sirrah, I say forbear.--Friend Valentine, a word.

My ears are stopped and cannot hear good news,

So much of bad already hath possessed them.

Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,

For they are harsh, untunable, and bad.

Is Sylvia dead?

No, Valentine.

No Valentine indeed for sacred Sylvia.

Hath she forsworn me?

No, Valentine.

No Valentine if Sylvia have forsworn me.

What is your news?

Sir, there is a proclamation that you are

vanished.

That thou art banished--O, that's the news--

From hence, from Sylvia, and from me thy friend.

O, I have fed upon this woe already,

And now excess of it will make me surfeit.

Doth Sylvia know that I am banished?

Ay, ay, and she hath offered to the doom--

Which unreversed stands in effectual force--

A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears;

Those at her father's churlish feet she tendered,

With them, upon her knees, her humble self,

Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became

them

As if but now they waxed pale for woe.

But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,

Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears

Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire;

But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.

Besides, her intercession chafed him so,

When she for thy repeal was suppliant,

That to close prison he commanded her

With many bitter threats of biding there.

No more, unless the next word that thou speak'st

Have some malignant power upon my life.

If so, I pray thee breathe it in mine ear

As ending anthem of my endless dolor.

Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,

And study help for that which thou lament'st.

Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.

Here, if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love;

Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.

Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that

And manage it against despairing thoughts.

Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence,

Which, being writ to me, shall be delivered

Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.

The time now serves not to expostulate.

Come, I'll convey thee through the city gate

And, ere I part with thee, confer at large

Of all that may concern thy love affairs.

As thou lov'st Sylvia, though not for thyself,

Regard thy danger, and along with me.

I pray thee, Lance, an if thou seest my boy,

Bid him make haste and meet me at the North

Gate.

Go, sirrah, find him out.--Come, Valentine.

O, my dear Sylvia! Hapless Valentine!

I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit

to think my master is a kind of a knave, but that's all

one if he be but one knave. He lives not now that

knows me to be in love, yet I am in love, but a team

of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who 'tis I

love; and yet 'tis a woman, but what woman I will

not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milk-maid; yet 'tis not a

maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis a maid, for

she is her master's maid and serves for wages. She

hath more qualities than a water spaniel, which is

much in a bare Christian.

Here is the catalog of her condition.

Imprimis, She can fetch and carry. Why, a

horse can do no more; nay, a horse cannot fetch but

only carry; therefore is she better than a jade.

Item, She can milk. Look you, a sweet

virtue in a maid with clean hands.

How now, Signior Lance? What news with your

Mastership?

With my master's ship? Why, it is at sea.

Well, your old vice still: mistake the word. What

news, then, in your paper?

The black'st news that ever thou heard'st.

Why, man? How black?

Why, as black as ink.

Let me read them.

Fie on thee, jolt-head, thou canst not read.

Thou liest. I can.

I will try thee. Tell me this, who begot thee?

Marry, the son of my grandfather.

O, illiterate loiterer, it was the son of thy grandmother.

This proves that thou canst not read.

Come, fool, come. Try me in thy paper.

There, and Saint Nicholas

be thy speed.

Imprimis, She can milk.

Ay, that she can.

Item, She brews good ale.

And thereof comes the proverb: Blessing of

your heart, you brew good ale.

Item, She can sew.

That's as much as to say Can she so?

Item, She can knit.

What need a man care for a stock with a wench,

when she can knit him a stock?

Item, She can wash and scour.

A special virtue, for then she need not be

washed and scoured.

Item, She can spin.

Then may I set the world on wheels, when she

can spin for her living.

Item, She hath many nameless virtues.

That's as much as to say bastard virtues, that

indeed know not their fathers and therefore have no

names.

Here follow her vices.

Close at the heels of her virtues.

Item, She is not to be kissed fasting in respect of

her breath.

Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast.

Read on.

Item, She hath a sweet mouth.

That makes amends for her sour breath.

Item, She doth talk in her sleep.

It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her

talk.

Item, She is slow in words.

O villain, that set this down among her vices! To

be slow in words is a woman's only virtue. I pray

thee, out with 't, and place it for her chief virtue.

Item, She is proud.

Out with that too; it was Eve's legacy and

cannot be ta'en from her.

Item, She hath no teeth.

I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

Item, She is curst.

Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.

Item, She will often praise her liquor.

If her liquor be good, she shall; if she will not, I

will, for good things should be praised.

Item, She is too liberal.

Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down

she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I'll

keep shut; now, of another thing she may, and that

cannot I help. Well, proceed.

Item, She hath more hair than wit, and more

faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.

Stop there. I'll have her. She was mine and not

mine twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse

that once more.

Item, She hath more hair than wit.

More hair than wit? It may be; I'll prove it:

the cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is

more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is

more than the wit, for the greater hides the less.

What's next?

And more faults than hairs.

That's monstrous! O, that that were out!

And more wealth than faults.

Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well,

I'll have her, and if it be a match, as nothing is

impossible--

What then?

Why, then will I tell thee that thy master stays

for thee at the North Gate.

For me?

For thee? Ay, who art thou? He hath stayed for a

better man than thee.

And must I go to him?

Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so

long that going will scarce serve the turn.

Why didst not tell me

sooner? Pox of your love letters!

Now will he be swinged for reading my letter;

an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into

secrets. I'll after, to rejoice in the boy's correction.

Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you

Now Valentine is banished from her sight.

Since his exile she hath despised me most,

Forsworn my company and railed at me,

That I am desperate of obtaining her.

This weak impress of love is as a figure

Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat

Dissolves to water and doth lose his form.

A little time will melt her frozen thoughts,

And worthless Valentine shall be forgot.

How now, Sir Proteus? Is your countryman,

According to our proclamation, gone?

Gone, my good lord.

My daughter takes his going grievously.

A little time, my lord, will kill that grief.

So I believe, but Thurio thinks not so.

Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee,

For thou hast shown some sign of good desert,

Makes me the better to confer with thee.

Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace

Let me not live to look upon your Grace.

Thou know'st how willingly I would effect

The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter?

I do, my lord.

And also, I think, thou art not ignorant

How she opposes her against my will?

She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.

Ay, and perversely she persevers so.

What might we do to make the girl forget

The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio?

The best way is to slander Valentine

With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent,

Three things that women highly hold in hate.

Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate.

Ay, if his enemy deliver it.

Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken

By one whom she esteemeth as his friend.

Then you must undertake to slander him.

And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do.

'Tis an ill office for a gentleman,

Especially against his very friend.

Where your good word cannot advantage him,

Your slander never can endamage him;

Therefore the office is indifferent,

Being entreated to it by your friend.

You have prevailed, my lord. If I can do it

By aught that I can speak in his dispraise,

She shall not long continue love to him.

But say this weed her love from Valentine,

It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.

Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,

Lest it should ravel and be good to none,

You must provide to bottom it on me,

Which must be done by praising me as much

As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine.

And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind

Because we know, on Valentine's report,

You are already Love's firm votary

And cannot soon revolt and change your mind.

Upon this warrant shall you have access

Where you with Sylvia may confer at large--

For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,

And, for your friend's sake, will be glad of you--

Where you may temper her by your persuasion

To hate young Valentine and love my friend.

As much as I can do I will effect.--

But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough.

You must lay lime to tangle her desires

By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes

Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows.

Ay, much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

Say that upon the altar of her beauty

You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart.

Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears

Moist it again, and frame some feeling line

That may discover such integrity.

For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews,

Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,

Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans

Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands.

After your dire-lamenting elegies,

Visit by night your lady's chamber window

With some sweet consort; to their instruments

Tune a deploring dump; the night's dead silence

Will well become such sweet complaining

grievance.

This, or else nothing, will inherit her.

This discipline shows thou hast been in love.

And thy advice this night I'll put in practice.

Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver,

Let us into the city presently

To sort some gentlemen well-skilled in music.

I have a sonnet that will serve the turn

To give the onset to thy good advice.

About it, gentlemen.

We'll wait upon your Grace till after supper

And afterward determine our proceedings.

Even now about it! I will pardon you.

Fellows, stand fast. I see a passenger.

If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em.

Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you.

If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.

Sir, we are undone; these are the villains

That all the travelers do fear so much.

My friends--

That's not so, sir. We are your enemies.

Peace. We'll hear him.

Ay, by my beard, will we, for he is a proper man.

Then know that I have little wealth to lose.

A man I am crossed with adversity;

My riches are these poor habiliments,

Of which, if you should here disfurnish me,

You take the sum and substance that I have.

Whither travel you?

To Verona.

Whence came you?

From Milan.

Have you long sojourned there?

Some sixteen months, and longer might have stayed

If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.

What, were you banished thence?

I was.

For what offense?

For that which now torments me to rehearse;

I killed a man, whose death I much repent,

But yet I slew him manfully in fight

Without false vantage or base treachery.

Why, ne'er repent it if it were done so;

But were you banished for so small a fault?

I was, and held me glad of such a doom.

Have you the tongues?

My youthful travel therein made me happy,

Or else I often had been miserable.

By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar,

This fellow were a king for our wild faction.

We'll have him.--Sirs, a word.

Master, be one of them. It's an honorable kind

of thievery.

Peace, villain.

Tell us this: have you anything to take to?

Nothing but my fortune.

Know then that some of us are gentlemen,

Such as the fury of ungoverned youth

Thrust from the company of awful men.

Myself was from Verona banished

For practicing to steal away a lady,

An heir and near allied unto the Duke.

And I from Mantua, for a gentleman

Who, in my mood, I stabbed unto the heart.

And I for such like petty crimes as these.

But to the purpose: for we cite our faults

That they may hold excused our lawless lives,

And partly seeing you are beautified

With goodly shape, and by your own report

A linguist, and a man of such perfection

As we do in our quality much want--

Indeed because you are a banished man,

Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you.

Are you content to be our general,

To make a virtue of necessity

And live as we do in this wilderness?

What sayst thou? Wilt thou be of our consort?

Say ay, and be the captain of us all;

We'll do thee homage and be ruled by thee,

Love thee as our commander and our king.

But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest.

Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offered.

I take your offer and will live with you,

Provided that you do no outrages

On silly women or poor passengers.

No, we detest such vile base practices.

Come, go with us; we'll bring thee to our crews

And show thee all the treasure we have got,

Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.

Already have I been false to Valentine,

And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.

Under the color of commending him,

I have access my own love to prefer.

But Sylvia is too fair, too true, too holy

To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

When I protest true loyalty to her,

She twits me with my falsehood to my friend;

When to her beauty I commend my vows,

She bids me think how I have been forsworn

In breaking faith with Julia, whom I loved;

And notwithstanding all her sudden quips,

The least whereof would quell a lover's hope,

Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,

The more it grows and fawneth on her still.

But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her

window

And give some evening music to her ear.

How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us?

Ay, gentle Thurio, for you know that love

Will creep in service where it cannot go.

Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here.

Sir, but I do, or else I would be hence.

Who, Sylvia?

Ay, Sylvia, for your sake.

I thank you for your own.--Now, gentlemen,

Let's tune, and to it lustily awhile.

Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly.

I pray you, why is it?

Marry, mine host, because I

cannot be merry.

Come, we'll have you merry. I'll bring you where

you shall hear music and see the gentleman that you

asked for.

But shall I hear him speak?

Ay, that you shall.

That will be music.

Hark, hark.

Is he among these?

Ay. But peace; let's hear 'em.

Who is Sylvia? What is she,

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair, and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her

That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness.

Love doth to her eyes repair

To help him of his blindness;

And, being helped, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing,

That Sylvia is excelling;

She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling.

To her let us garlands bring.

How now? Are you sadder than you were before?

How do you, man? The music likes you not.

You mistake. The musician likes me

not.

Why, my pretty youth?

He plays false, father.

How, out of tune on the strings?

Not so; but yet so false that he

grieves my very heart-strings.

You have a quick ear.

Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes

me have a slow heart.

I perceive you delight not in music.

Not a whit when it jars so.

Hark, what fine change is in the music!

Ay; that change is the spite.

You would have them always play but one

thing?

I would always have one play but one thing.

But, host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on,

Often resort unto this gentlewoman?

I tell you what Lance his man told me: he loved

her out of all nick.

Where is Lance?

Gone to seek his dog, which tomorrow, by his

master's command, he must carry for a present to

his lady.

Peace. Stand aside. The company

parts.

Sir Thurio, fear not you. I will so plead

That you shall say my cunning drift excels.

Where meet we?

At Saint Gregory's well.

Farewell.

Madam, good even to your Ladyship.

I thank you for your music, gentlemen.

Who is that that spake?

One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth,

You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.

Sir Proteus, as I take it.

Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.

What's your will?

That I may compass yours.

You have your wish: my will is even this,

That presently you hie you home to bed.

Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man,

Think'st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,

To be seduced by thy flattery,

That hast deceived so many with thy vows?

Return, return, and make thy love amends.

For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,

I am so far from granting thy request

That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit

And by and by intend to chide myself

Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.

I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady,

But she is dead.

'Twere false if I should speak it,

For I am sure she is not buried.

Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend

Survives, to whom, thyself art witness,

I am betrothed. And art thou not ashamed

To wrong him with thy importunacy?

I likewise hear that Valentine is dead.

And so suppose am I, for in his grave,

Assure thyself, my love is buried.

Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.

Go to thy lady's grave and call hers thence,

Or, at the least, in hers sepulcher thine.

He heard not that.

Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,

Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,

The picture that is hanging in your chamber;

To that I'll speak, to that I'll sigh and weep,

For since the substance of your perfect self

Is else devoted, I am but a shadow;

And to your shadow will I make true love.

If 'twere a substance you would sure deceive it

And make it but a shadow, as I am.

I am very loath to be your idol, sir;

But since your falsehood shall become you well

To worship shadows and adore false shapes,

Send to me in the morning, and I'll send it.

And so, good rest.

As wretches have o'ernight

That wait for execution in the morn.

Host, will you go?

By my halidom, I was fast asleep.

Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?

Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost

day.

Not so; but it hath been the longest night

That e'er I watched, and the most heaviest.

This is the hour that Madam Sylvia

Entreated me to call and know her mind;

There's some great matter she'd employ me in.

Madam, madam!

Who calls?

Your servant, and your friend,

One that attends your Ladyship's command.

Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow.

As many, worthy lady, to yourself.

According to your Ladyship's impose,

I am thus early come to know what service

It is your pleasure to command me in.

O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman--

Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not--

Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplished.

Thou art not ignorant what dear good will

I bear unto the banished Valentine,

Nor how my father would enforce me marry

Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhorred.

Thyself hast loved, and I have heard thee say

No grief did ever come so near thy heart

As when thy lady and thy true love died,

Upon whose grave thou vow'dst pure chastity.

Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,

To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode;

And for the ways are dangerous to pass,

I do desire thy worthy company,

Upon whose faith and honor I repose.

Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour,

But think upon my grief, a lady's grief,

And on the justice of my flying hence

To keep me from a most unholy match,

Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.

I do desire thee, even from a heart

As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,

To bear me company and go with me;

If not, to hide what I have said to thee,

That I may venture to depart alone.

Madam, I pity much your grievances,

Which, since I know they virtuously are placed,

I give consent to go along with you,

Recking as little what betideth me

As much I wish all good befortune you.

When will you go?

This evening coming.

Where shall I meet you?

At Friar Patrick's cell,

Where I intend holy confession.

I will not fail your Ladyship. Good morrow, gentle

lady.

Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour.

When a man's servant shall play the cur with

him, look you, it goes hard--one that I brought up

of a puppy, one that I saved from drowning when

three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went

to it. I have taught him even as one would say

precisely Thus I would teach a dog. I was sent to

deliver him as a present to Mistress Sylvia from my

master; and I came no sooner into the dining

chamber but he steps me to her trencher and steals

her capon's leg. O, 'tis a foul thing when a cur

cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have,

as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a

dog indeed; to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I

had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon

me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged

for 't. Sure as I live, he had suffered for 't. You shall

judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of

three or four gentlemanlike dogs under the Duke's

table; he had not been there--bless the mark!--a

pissing while but all the chamber smelt him. Out

with the dog! says one. What cur is that? says

another. Whip him out! says the third. Hang him

up! says the Duke. I, having been acquainted with

the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to

the fellow that whips the dogs. Friend, quoth I,

You mean to whip the dog? Ay, marry, do I,

quoth he. You do him the more wrong, quoth I.

'Twas I did the thing you wot of. He makes me no

more ado but whips me out of the chamber. How

many masters would do this for his servant? Nay,

I'll be sworn I have sat in the stocks for puddings he

hath stolen; otherwise he had been executed. I have

stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed; otherwise

he had suffered for 't. Thou think'st

not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you

served me when I took my leave of Madam Sylvia.

Did not I bid thee still mark me, and do as I do?

When didst thou see me heave up my leg and make

water against a gentlewoman's farthingale? Didst

thou ever see me do such a trick?

Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well

And will employ thee in some service presently.

In what you please. I'll do what I can.

I hope thou wilt. How now, you

whoreson peasant?

Where have you been these two days loitering?

Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Sylvia the dog you

bade me.

And what says she to my little jewel?

Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells

you currish thanks is good enough for such a

present.

But she received my dog?

No, indeed, did she not. Here have I brought

him back again.

What, didst thou offer her this from me?

Ay, sir. The other squirrel was stolen from me

by the hangman's boys in the market-place, and

then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as

ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater.

Go, get thee hence, and find my dog again,

Or ne'er return again into my sight.

Away, I say. Stayest thou to vex me here?

A slave that still an end turns me to shame.

Sebastian, I have entertained thee,

Partly that I have need of such a youth

That can with some discretion do my business--

For 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout--

But chiefly for thy face and thy behavior,

Which, if my augury deceive me not,

Witness good bringing-up, fortune, and truth.

Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee.

Go presently, and take this ring with thee;

Deliver it to Madam Sylvia.

She loved me well delivered it to me.

It seems you loved not her, to leave her token.

She is dead belike?

Not so; I think she lives.

Alas!

Why dost thou cry Alas?

I cannot choose but pity her.

Wherefore shouldst thou pity her?

Because methinks that she loved you as well

As you do love your lady Sylvia.

She dreams on him that has forgot her love;

You dote on her that cares not for your love.

'Tis pity love should be so contrary,

And thinking on it makes me cry Alas.

Well, give her that ring and therewithal

This letter. That's her

chamber. Tell my lady

I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.

Your message done, hie home unto my chamber,

Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary.

How many women would do such a message?

Alas, poor Proteus, thou hast entertained

A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.

Alas, poor fool, why do I pity him

That with his very heart despiseth me?

Because he loves her, he despiseth me;

Because I love him, I must pity him.

This ring I gave him when he parted from me,

To bind him to remember my good will;

And now am I, unhappy messenger,

To plead for that which I would not obtain,

To carry that which I would have refused,

To praise his faith, which I would have dispraised.

I am my master's true confirmed love,

But cannot be true servant to my master

Unless I prove false traitor to myself.

Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly

As--Heaven it knows!--I would not have him

speed.

Gentlewoman, good day. I pray you be

my mean

To bring me where to speak with Madam Sylvia.

What would you with her, if that I be she?

If you be she, I do entreat your patience

To hear me speak the message I am sent on.

From whom?

From my master, Sir Proteus,

madam.

O, he sends you for a picture?

Ay, madam.

Ursula, bring my picture there.

Go, give your master this. Tell him from me,

One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,

Would better fit his chamber than this shadow.

Madam, please you peruse this

letter.

Pardon me, madam, I have unadvised

Delivered you a paper that I should not.

This is the letter to your Ladyship.

I pray thee let me look on that again.

It may not be; good madam, pardon me.

There, hold.

I will not look upon your master's lines;

I know they are stuffed with protestations

And full of new-found oaths, which he will break

As easily as I do tear his paper.

Madam, he sends your Ladyship this ring.

The more shame for him, that he sends it me;

For I have heard him say a thousand times

His Julia gave it him at his departure.

Though his false finger have profaned the ring,

Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.

She thanks you.

What sayst thou?

I thank you, madam, that you tender her;

Poor gentlewoman, my master wrongs her much.

Dost thou know her?

Almost as well as I do know myself.

To think upon her woes, I do protest

That I have wept a hundred several times.

Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her?

I think she doth, and that's her cause of sorrow.

Is she not passing fair?

She hath been fairer, madam, than she is;

When she did think my master loved her well,

She, in my judgment, was as fair as you.

But since she did neglect her looking-glass

And threw her sun-expelling mask away,

The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks

And pinched the lily tincture of her face,

That now she is become as black as I.

How tall was she?

About my stature; for at Pentecost,

When all our pageants of delight were played,

Our youth got me to play the woman's part,

And I was trimmed in Madam Julia's gown,

Which served me as fit, by all men's judgments,

As if the garment had been made for me;

Therefore I know she is about my height.

And at that time I made her weep agood,

For I did play a lamentable part;

Madam, 'twas Ariadne, passioning

For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight,

Which I so lively acted with my tears

That my poor mistress, moved therewithal,

Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead

If I in thought felt not her very sorrow.

She is beholding to thee, gentle youth.

Alas, poor lady, desolate and left!

I weep myself to think upon thy words.

Here, youth, there is my purse.

I give thee this

For thy sweet mistress' sake, because thou lov'st her.

Farewell.

And she shall thank you for 't if e'er you know her.

A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful.

I hope my master's suit will be but cold,

Since she respects my mistress' love so much.--

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

Here is her picture; let me see. I think

If I had such a tire, this face of mine

Were full as lovely as is this of hers;

And yet the painter flattered her a little,

Unless I flatter with myself too much.

Her hair is auburn; mine is perfect yellow;

If that be all the difference in his love,

I'll get me such a colored periwig.

Her eyes are gray as glass, and so are mine.

Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high.

What should it be that he respects in her

But I can make respective in myself

If this fond Love were not a blinded god?

Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,

For 'tis thy rival. O, thou senseless form,

Thou shalt be worshipped, kissed, loved, and

adored;

And were there sense in his idolatry,

My substance should be statue in thy stead.

I'll use thee kindly for thy mistress' sake,

That used me so, or else, by Jove I vow,

I should have scratched out your unseeing eyes

To make my master out of love with thee.

The sun begins to gild the western sky,

And now it is about the very hour

That Sylvia at Friar Patrick's cell should meet me.

She will not fail, for lovers break not hours,

Unless it be to come before their time,

So much they spur their expedition.

See where she comes.--Lady, a happy evening.

Amen, amen. Go on, good Eglamour,

Out at the postern by the abbey wall.

I fear I am attended by some spies.

Fear not. The forest is not three leagues off;

If we recover that, we are sure enough.

Sir Proteus, what says Sylvia to my suit?

O sir, I find her milder than she was,

And yet she takes exceptions at your person.

What? That my leg is too long?

No, that it is too little.

I'll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder.

But love will not be spurred to what it loathes.

What says she to my face?

She says it is a fair one.

Nay, then the wanton lies; my face is black.

But pearls are fair, and the old saying is,

Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.

'Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies' eyes,

For I had rather wink than look on them.

How likes she my discourse?

Ill, when you talk of war.

But well when I discourse of love and peace.

But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.

What says she to my valor?

O, sir, she makes no doubt of that.

She needs not when she knows it cowardice.

What says she to my birth?

That you are well derived.

True, from a gentleman to a fool.

Considers she my possessions?

O, ay, and pities them.

Wherefore?

That such an ass should owe them.

That they are out by lease.

Here comes the Duke.

How now, Sir Proteus?--How now, Thurio?

Which of you saw Eglamour of late?

Not I.

Nor I.

Saw you my daughter?

Neither.

Why, then, she's fled unto that peasant, Valentine,

And Eglamour is in her company.

'Tis true, for Friar Lawrence met them both

As he, in penance, wandered through the forest;

Him he knew well and guessed that it was she,

But, being masked, he was not sure of it.

Besides, she did intend confession

At Patrick's cell this even, and there she was not.

These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.

Therefore I pray you stand not to discourse,

But mount you presently and meet with me

Upon the rising of the mountain foot

That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled.

Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me.

Why, this it is to be a peevish girl

That flies her fortune when it follows her.

I'll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour

Than for the love of reckless Sylvia.

And I will follow, more for Sylvia's love

Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her.

And I will follow, more to cross that love

Than hate for Sylvia, that is gone for love.

Come, come, be patient. We must bring you to our

captain.

A thousand more mischances than this one

Have learned me how to brook this patiently.

Come, bring her away.

Where is the gentleman that was with her?

Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us,

But Moyses and Valerius follow him.

Go thou with her to the west end of the wood;

There is our captain. We'll follow him that's fled.

The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape.

Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave.

Fear not; he bears an honorable mind

And will not use a woman lawlessly.

O Valentine, this I endure for thee!

How use doth breed a habit in a man!

This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,

I better brook than flourishing peopled towns;

Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,

And to the nightingale's complaining notes

Tune my distresses and record my woes.

O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,

Leave not the mansion so long tenantless

Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall

And leave no memory of what it was.

Repair me with thy presence, Sylvia;

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain.

What hallowing and what stir is this today?

These are my mates, that make their wills their law,

Have some unhappy passenger in chase.

They love me well, yet I have much to do

To keep them from uncivil outrages.

Withdraw thee, Valentine. Who's this comes here?

Madam, this service I have done for you--

Though you respect not aught your servant doth--

To hazard life, and rescue you from him

That would have forced your honor and your love.

Vouchsafe me for my meed but one fair look;

A smaller boon than this I cannot beg,

And less than this I am sure you cannot give.

How like a dream is this I see and hear!

Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.

O miserable, unhappy that I am!

Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came,

But by my coming, I have made you happy.

By thy approach thou mak'st me most unhappy.

And me, when he approacheth to your presence.

Had I been seized by a hungry lion,

I would have been a breakfast to the beast

Rather than have false Proteus rescue me.

O heaven, be judge how I love Valentine,

Whose life's as tender to me as my soul;

And full as much, for more there cannot be,

I do detest false perjured Proteus.

Therefore begone; solicit me no more.

What dangerous action, stood it next to death,

Would I not undergo for one calm look!

O, 'tis the curse in love, and still approved,

When women cannot love where they're beloved.

When Proteus cannot love where he's beloved.

Read over Julia's heart, thy first best love,

For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith

Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths

Descended into perjury to love me.

Thou hast no faith left now unless thou 'dst two,

And that's far worse than none; better have none

Than plural faith, which is too much by one.

Thou counterfeit to thy true friend!

In love

Who respects friend?

All men but Proteus.

Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words

Can no way change you to a milder form,

I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end,

And love you 'gainst the nature of love--force you.

O, heaven!

I'll force thee yield to my desire.

Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch,

Thou friend of an ill fashion.

Valentine!

Thou common friend, that's without faith or love,

For such is a friend now. Treacherous man,

Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye

Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say

I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me.

Who should be trusted when one's right hand

Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus,

I am sorry I must never trust thee more,

But count the world a stranger for thy sake.

The private wound is deepest. O, time most

accursed,

'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!

My shame and guilt confounds me.

Forgive me, Valentine. If hearty sorrow

Be a sufficient ransom for offense,

I tender 't here. I do as truly suffer

As e'er I did commit.

Then I am paid,

And once again I do receive thee honest.

Who by repentance is not satisfied

Is nor of heaven nor Earth, for these are pleased;

By penitence th' Eternal's wrath's appeased.

And that my love may appear plain and free,

All that was mine in Sylvia I give thee.

O me unhappy!

Look to the boy.

Why, boy!

Why, wag, how now? What's the matter? Look up.

Speak.

O, good sir, my master charged

me to deliver a ring to Madam Sylvia, which out of

my neglect was never done.

Where is that ring, boy?

Here 'tis; this is it.

How, let me see.

Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.

O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook.

This is the ring you sent to Sylvia.

But how cam'st thou by this ring? At my depart

I gave this unto Julia.

And Julia herself did give it me,

And Julia herself hath brought it hither.

How? Julia!

Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths

And entertained 'em deeply in her heart.

How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!

O, Proteus, let this habit make thee blush.

Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me

Such an immodest raiment, if shame live

In a disguise of love.

It is the lesser blot, modesty finds,

Women to change their shapes than men their minds.

Than men their minds? 'Tis true. O heaven, were

man

But constant, he were perfect; that one error

Fills him with faults, makes him run through all th'

sins;

Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.

What is in Sylvia's face but I may spy

More fresh in Julia's, with a constant eye?

Come, come, a

hand from either.

Let me be blest to make this happy close.

'Twere pity two such friends should be long foes.

Bear witness, heaven, I have my wish forever.

And I mine.

A prize, a prize, a prize!

Forbear, forbear, I say. It is my lord the Duke.

Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced,

Banished Valentine.

Sir Valentine?

Yonder is Sylvia, and Sylvia's mine.

Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death;

Come not within the measure of my wrath.

Do not name Sylvia thine; if once again,

Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands;

Take but possession of her with a touch--

I dare thee but to breathe upon my love!

Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I.

I hold him but a fool that will endanger

His body for a girl that loves him not.

I claim her not, and therefore she is thine.

The more degenerate and base art thou

To make such means for her as thou hast done,

And leave her on such slight conditions.--

Now, by the honor of my ancestry,

I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine,

And think thee worthy of an empress' love.

Know, then, I here forget all former griefs,

Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again,

Plead a new state in thy unrivaled merit,

To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine,

Thou art a gentleman, and well derived;

Take thou thy Sylvia, for thou hast deserved her.

I thank your Grace, the gift hath made me happy.

I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake,

To grant one boon that I shall ask of you.

I grant it for thine own, whate'er it be.

These banished men, that I have kept withal,

Are men endued with worthy qualities.

Forgive them what they have committed here,

And let them be recalled from their exile;

They are reformed, civil, full of good,

And fit for great employment, worthy lord.

Thou hast prevailed; I pardon them and thee.

Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts.

Come, let us go; we will include all jars

With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity.

And as we walk along, I dare be bold

With our discourse to make your Grace to smile.

What think you of this page, my

lord?

I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes.

I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy.

What mean you by that saying?

Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along,

That you will wonder what hath fortuned.--

Come, Proteus, 'tis your penance but to hear

The story of your loves discovered.

That done, our day of marriage shall be yours,

One feast, one house, one mutual happiness.

two_gentlemen_of_verona

taming_of_the_shrew

I'll feeze you, in faith.

A pair of stocks, you rogue!

You're a baggage! The Slys are no rogues. Look

in the chronicles. We came in with Richard Conqueror.

Therefore, paucas pallabris, let the world

slide. Sessa!

You will not pay for the glasses you have

burst?

No, not a denier. Go, by Saint Jeronimy! Go to

thy cold bed and warm thee.

I know my remedy. I must go fetch the

headborough.

Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him

by law. I'll not budge an inch, boy. Let him come,

and kindly.

Huntsman, I charge thee tender well my hounds.

Breathe Merriman (the poor cur is embossed)

And couple Clowder with the deep-mouthed brach.

Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good

At the hedge corner, in the coldest fault?

I would not lose the dog for twenty pound!

Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord.

He cried upon it at the merest loss,

And twice today picked out the dullest scent.

Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

Thou art a fool. If Echo were as fleet,

I would esteem him worth a dozen such.

But sup them well, and look unto them all.

Tomorrow I intend to hunt again.

I will, my lord.

What's here? One dead, or drunk? See doth he

breathe.

He breathes, my lord. Were he not warmed with ale,

This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

O monstrous beast, how like a swine he lies!

Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!

Sirs, I will practice on this drunken man.

What think you, if he were conveyed to bed,

Wrapped in sweet clothes, rings put upon his

fingers,

A most delicious banquet by his bed,

And brave attendants near him when he wakes,

Would not the beggar then forget himself?

Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

It would seem strange unto him when he waked.

Even as a flatt'ring dream or worthless fancy.

Then take him up, and manage well the jest.

Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,

And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;

Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters,

And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet;

Procure me music ready when he wakes

To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound.

And if he chance to speak, be ready straight

And, with a low, submissive reverence,

Say What is it your Honor will command?

Let one attend him with a silver basin

Full of rosewater and bestrewed with flowers,

Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,

And say Will 't please your Lordship cool your

hands?

Someone be ready with a costly suit,

And ask him what apparel he will wear.

Another tell him of his hounds and horse,

And that his lady mourns at his disease.

Persuade him that he hath been lunatic,

And when he says he is, say that he dreams,

For he is nothing but a mighty lord.

This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs.

It will be pastime passing excellent

If it be husbanded with modesty.

My lord, I warrant you we will play our part

As he shall think by our true diligence

He is no less than what we say he is.

Take him up gently, and to bed with him,

And each one to his office when he wakes.

Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds.

Belike some noble gentleman that means

(Traveling some journey) to repose him here.

How now? Who is it?

An 't please your Honor, players

That offer service to your Lordship.

Bid them come near.

Now, fellows, you are welcome.

We thank your Honor.

Do you intend to stay with me tonight?

So please your Lordship to accept our duty.

With all my heart. This fellow I remember

Since once he played a farmer's eldest son.--

'Twas where you wooed the gentlewoman so well.

I have forgot your name, but sure that part

Was aptly fitted and naturally performed.

I think 'twas Soto that your Honor means.

'Tis very true. Thou didst it excellent.

Well, you are come to me in happy time,

The rather for I have some sport in hand

Wherein your cunning can assist me much.

There is a lord will hear you play tonight;

But I am doubtful of your modesties,

Lest, over-eying of his odd behavior

(For yet his Honor never heard a play),

You break into some merry passion,

And so offend him. For I tell you, sirs,

If you should smile, he grows impatient.

Fear not, my lord, we can contain ourselves

Were he the veriest antic in the world.

Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery

And give them friendly welcome every one.

Let them want nothing that my house affords.

Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew, my page,

And see him dressed in all suits like a lady.

That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber,

And call him Madam, do him obeisance.

Tell him from me, as he will win my love,

He bear himself with honorable action,

Such as he hath observed in noble ladies

Unto their lords, by them accomplished.

Such duty to the drunkard let him do

With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,

And say What is 't your Honor will command,

Wherein your lady and your humble wife

May show her duty and make known her love?

And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,

And with declining head into his bosom,

Bid him shed tears, as being overjoyed

To see her noble lord restored to health,

Who, for this seven years, hath esteemed him

No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.

And if the boy have not a woman's gift

To rain a shower of commanded tears,

An onion will do well for such a shift,

Which (in a napkin being close conveyed)

Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.

See this dispatched with all the haste thou canst.

Anon I'll give thee more instructions.

I know the boy will well usurp the grace,

Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman.

I long to hear him call the drunkard husband!

And how my men will stay themselves from

laughter

When they do homage to this simple peasant,

I'll in to counsel them. Haply my presence

May well abate the over-merry spleen

Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

For God's sake, a pot of small ale.

Will 't please your Lord drink a cup of sack?

Will 't please your Honor taste of these conserves?

What raiment will your Honor wear today?

I am Christophero Sly! Call not me Honor nor

Lordship. I ne'er drank sack in my life. An if you

give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef.

Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no

more doublets than backs, no more stockings than

legs, nor no more shoes than feet, nay sometime

more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look

through the over-leather.

Heaven cease this idle humor in your Honor!

O, that a mighty man of such descent,

Of such possessions, and so high esteem

Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher

Sly, old Sly's son of Burton Heath, by birth a

peddler, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation

a bearherd, and now by present profession a

tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat alewife of Wincot,

if she know me not! If she say I am not fourteen

pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the

lying'st knave in Christendom. What, I am not

bestraught! Here's--

O, this it is that makes your lady mourn.

O, this is it that makes your servants droop.

Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.

O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,

Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,

And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.

Look how thy servants do attend on thee,

Each in his office ready at thy beck.

Wilt thou have music? Hark, Apollo plays,

And twenty caged nightingales do sing.

Or wilt thou sleep? We'll have thee to a couch

Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed

On purpose trimmed up for Semiramis.

Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground.

Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapped,

Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.

Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar

Above the morning lark. Or wilt thou hunt?

Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them

And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.

Say thou wilt course. Thy greyhounds are as swift

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee straight

Adonis painted by a running brook,

And Cytherea all in sedges hid,

Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,

Even as the waving sedges play with wind.

We'll show thee Io as she was a maid

And how she was beguiled and surprised,

As lively painted as the deed was done.

Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,

Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds,

And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.

Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord;

Thou hast a lady far more beautiful

Than any woman in this waning age.

And till the tears that she hath shed for thee

Like envious floods o'errun her lovely face,

She was the fairest creature in the world--

And yet she is inferior to none.

Am I a lord, and have I such a lady?

Or do I dream? Or have I dreamed till now?

I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak,

I smell sweet savors, and I feel soft things.

Upon my life, I am a lord indeed

And not a tinker, nor Christopher Sly.

Well, bring our lady hither to our sight,

And once again a pot o' the smallest ale.

Will 't please your Mightiness to wash your hands?

O, how we joy to see your wit restored!

O, that once more you knew but what you are!

These fifteen years you have been in a dream,

Or, when you waked, so waked as if you slept.

These fifteen years! By my fay, a goodly nap.

But did I never speak of all that time?

Oh, yes, my lord, but very idle words.

For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,

Yet would you say you were beaten out of door,

And rail upon the hostess of the house,

And say you would present her at the leet

Because she brought stone jugs and no sealed

quarts.

Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

Ay, the woman's maid of the house.

Why, sir, you know no house, nor no such maid,

Nor no such men as you have reckoned up,

As Stephen Sly and old John Naps of Greete,

And Peter Turph and Henry Pimpernell,

And twenty more such names and men as these,

Which never were, nor no man ever saw.

Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends!

Amen.

I thank thee. Thou shalt not lose by it.

How fares my noble lord?

Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer enough.

Where is my wife?

Here, noble lord. What is thy will with her?

Are you my wife, and will not call me husband?

My men should call me lord. I am your goodman.

My husband and my lord, my lord and husband,

I am your wife in all obedience.

I know it well.--What must I call her?

Madam.

Alice Madam, or Joan Madam?

Madam, and nothing else. So lords call ladies.

Madam wife, they say that I have dreamed

And slept above some fifteen year or more.

Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,

Being all this time abandoned from your bed.

'Tis much.--Servants, leave me and her alone.--

Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.

Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you

To pardon me yet for a night or two;

Or if not so, until the sun be set.

For your physicians have expressly charged,

In peril to incur your former malady,

That I should yet absent me from your bed.

I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long; but

I would be loath to fall into my dreams again. I will

therefore tarry in despite of the flesh and the

blood.

Your Honor's players, hearing your amendment,

Are come to play a pleasant comedy,

For so your doctors hold it very meet,

Seeing too much sadness hath congealed your

blood,

And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.

Therefore they thought it good you hear a play

And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,

Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

Marry, I will. Let them play it.

Is not a comonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling

trick?

No, my good lord, it is more pleasing stuff.

What, household stuff?

It is a kind of history.

Well, we'll see 't. Come, madam wife, sit by my

side, and let the world slip. We shall ne'er be

younger.

Tranio, since for the great desire I had

To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,

I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy,

The pleasant garden of great Italy,

And by my father's love and leave am armed

With his goodwill and thy good company.

My trusty servant well approved in all,

Here let us breathe and haply institute

A course of learning and ingenious studies.

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,

Gave me my being, and my father first,

A merchant of great traffic through the world,

Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii.

Vincentio's son, brought up in Florence,

It shall become to serve all hopes conceived

To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds.

And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study

Virtue, and that part of philosophy

Will I apply that treats of happiness

By virtue specially to be achieved.

Tell me thy mind, for I have Pisa left

And am to Padua come, as he that leaves

A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep

And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.

Mi perdonato, gentle master mine.

I am in all affected as yourself,

Glad that you thus continue your resolve

To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.

Only, good master, while we do admire

This virtue and this moral discipline,

Let's be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray,

Or so devote to Aristotle's checks

As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured.

Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,

And practice rhetoric in your common talk;

Music and poesy use to quicken you;

The mathematics and the metaphysics--

Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you.

No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en.

In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.

If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,

We could at once put us in readiness

And take a lodging fit to entertain

Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.

But stay awhile! What company is this?

Master, some show to welcome us to town.

Gentlemen, importune me no farther,

For how I firmly am resolved you know:

That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter

Before I have a husband for the elder.

If either of you both love Katherine,

Because I know you well and love you well,

Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

To cart her, rather. She's too rough for me.--

There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?

I pray you, sir, is it your will

To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

Mates, maid? How mean you that? No mates for

you,

Unless you were of gentler, milder mold.

I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear.

Iwis it is not halfway to her heart.

But if it were, doubt not her care should be

To comb your noddle with a three-legged stool

And paint your face and use you like a fool.

From all such devils, good Lord, deliver us!

And me too, good Lord.

Husht, master, here's some good pastime toward;

That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

But in the other's silence do I see

Maid's mild behavior and sobriety.

Peace, Tranio.

Well said, master. Mum, and gaze your fill.

Gentlemen, that I may soon make good

What I have said--Bianca, get you in,

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,

For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl.

A pretty peat! It is best

Put finger in the eye, an she knew why.

Sister, content you in my discontent.--

Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe.

My books and instruments shall be my company,

On them to look and practice by myself.

Hark, Tranio, thou mayst hear Minerva speak!

Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?

Sorry am I that our goodwill effects

Bianca's grief.

Why will you mew her up,

Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,

And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

Gentlemen, content you. I am resolved.--

Go in, Bianca.

And for I know she taketh most delight

In music, instruments, and poetry,

Schoolmasters will I keep within my house

Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,

Or, Signior Gremio, you know any such,

Prefer them hither. For to cunning men

I will be very kind, and liberal

To mine own children in good bringing up.

And so, farewell.--Katherine, you may stay,

For I have more to commune with Bianca.

Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not?

What, shall I be appointed hours as though, belike,

I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha!

You may go to the Devil's dam! Your gifts are

so good here's none will hold you.--Their love is

not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails

together and fast it fairly out. Our cake's dough on

both sides. Farewell. Yet for the love I bear my

sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit

man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will

wish him to her father.

So will I, Signior Gremio. But a word, I

pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never

brooked parle, know now upon advice, it toucheth

us both (that we may yet again have access to our

fair mistress and be happy rivals in Bianca's love) to

labor and effect one thing specially.

What's that, I pray?

Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.

A husband? A devil!

I say a husband.

I say a devil. Think'st thou, Hortensio,

though her father be very rich, any man is so very a

fool to be married to hell?

Tush, Gremio. Though it pass your patience

and mine to endure her loud alarums, why,

man, there be good fellows in the world, an a man

could light on them, would take her with all faults,

and money enough.

I cannot tell. But I had as lief take her dowry

with this condition: to be whipped at the high cross

every morning.

Faith, as you say, there's small choice in

rotten apples. But come, since this bar in law

makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly

maintained till by helping Baptista's eldest daughter

to a husband we set his youngest free for a

husband, and then have to 't afresh. Sweet Bianca!

Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the

ring. How say you, Signior Gremio?

I am agreed, and would I had given him the

best horse in Padua to begin his wooing that would

thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid

the house of her. Come on.

I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible

That love should of a sudden take such hold?

O Tranio, till I found it to be true,

I never thought it possible or likely.

But see, while idly I stood looking on,

I found the effect of love-in-idleness,

And now in plainness do confess to thee

That art to me as secret and as dear

As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was:

Tranio, I burn, I pine! I perish, Tranio,

If I achieve not this young modest girl.

Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst.

Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

Master, it is no time to chide you now.

Affection is not rated from the heart.

If love have touched you, naught remains but so:

Redime te captum quam queas minimo.

Gramercies, lad. Go forward. This contents;

The rest will comfort, for thy counsel's sound.

Master, you looked so longly on the maid,

Perhaps you marked not what's the pith of all.

O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,

Such as the daughter of Agenor had,

That made great Jove to humble him to her hand

When with his knees he kissed the Cretan strand.

Saw you no more? Marked you not how her sister

Began to scold and raise up such a storm

That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?

Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,

And with her breath she did perfume the air.

Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.

Nay, then 'tis time to stir him from his trance.--

I pray, awake, sir! If you love the maid,

Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it

stands:

Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd

That till the father rid his hands of her,

Master, your love must live a maid at home,

And therefore has he closely mewed her up,

Because she will not be annoyed with suitors.

Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father's he!

But art thou not advised he took some care

To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

Ay, marry, am I, sir--and now 'tis plotted!

I have it, Tranio!

Master, for my hand,

Both our inventions meet and jump in one.

Tell me thine first.

You will be schoolmaster

And undertake the teaching of the maid:

That's your device.

It is. May it be done?

Not possible. For who shall bear your part

And be in Padua here Vincentio's son,

Keep house, and ply his book, welcome his friends,

Visit his countrymen and banquet them?

Basta, content thee, for I have it full.

We have not yet been seen in any house,

Nor can we be distinguished by our faces

For man or master. Then it follows thus:

Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,

Keep house, and port, and servants, as I should.

I will some other be, some Florentine,

Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.

'Tis hatched, and shall be so. Tranio, at once

Uncase thee. Take my colored hat and cloak.

When Biondello comes, he waits on thee,

But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.

So had you need.

In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is,

And I am tied to be obedient

(For so your father charged me at our parting:

Be serviceable to my son, quoth he,

Although I think 'twas in another sense),

I am content to be Lucentio,

Because so well I love Lucentio.

Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves,

And let me be a slave, t' achieve that maid

Whose sudden sight hath thralled my wounded eye.

Here comes the rogue.--Sirrah, where have you

been?

Where have I been? Nay, how now, where are you?

Master, has my fellow Tranio stolen your clothes?

Or you stolen his? Or both? Pray, what's the news?

Sirrah, come hither. 'Tis no time to jest,

And therefore frame your manners to the time.

Your fellow, Tranio here, to save my life,

Puts my apparel and my count'nance on,

And I for my escape have put on his;

For in a quarrel since I came ashore

I killed a man and fear I was descried.

Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,

While I make way from hence to save my life.

You understand me?

Ay, sir. Ne'er a whit.

And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth.

Tranio is changed into Lucentio.

The better for him. Would I were so too.

So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,

That Lucentio indeed had Baptista's youngest

daughter.

But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master's, I

advise

You use your manners discreetly in all kind of

companies.

When I am alone, why then I am Tranio;

But in all places else, your master Lucentio.

Tranio, let's go. One thing more rests, that

thyself execute, to make one among these wooers. If

thou ask me why, sufficeth my reasons are both

good and weighty.

My lord, you nod. You do not mind the play.

Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter, surely.

Comes there any more of it?

My lord, 'tis but begun.

'Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady.

Would 'twere done.

Verona, for a while I take my leave

To see my friends in Padua, but of all

My best beloved and approved friend,

Hortensio. And I trow this is his house.

Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say.

Knock, sir? Whom should I knock? Is there

any man has rebused your Worship?

Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.

Knock you here, sir? Why, sir, what am I, sir,

that I should knock you here, sir?

Villain, I say, knock me at this gate

And rap me well, or I'll knock your knave's pate.

My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock

you first,

And then I know after who comes by the worst.

Will it not be?

Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock, I'll ring it.

I'll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it.

Help, mistress, help! My master is mad.

Now knock when I bid you, sirrah

villain.

How now, what's the matter? My old

friend Grumio and my good friend Petruchio? How

do you all at Verona?

Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?

Con tutto il cuore ben trovato, may I say.

Alia nostra casa ben venuto, molto

honorato signor mio Petruchio.--Rise, Grumio,

rise. We will compound this quarrel.

Nay, 'tis no matter, sir, what he 'leges in

Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave

his service--look you, sir: he bid me knock him

and rap him soundly, sir. Well, was it fit for a

servant to use his master so, being perhaps, for

aught I see, two-and-thirty, a pip out?

Whom, would to God, I had well knocked at first,

Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

A senseless villain, good Hortensio.

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate

And could not get him for my heart to do it.

Knock at the gate? O, heavens, spake you not

these words plain: Sirrah, knock me here, rap me

here, knock me well, and knock me soundly? And

come you now with knocking at the gate?

Sirrah, begone, or talk not, I advise you.

Petruchio, patience. I am Grumio's pledge.

Why, this' a heavy chance 'twixt him and you,

Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.

And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale

Blows you to Padua here from old Verona?

Such wind as scatters young men through the world

To seek their fortunes farther than at home,

Where small experience grows. But in a few,

Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:

Antonio, my father, is deceased,

And I have thrust myself into this maze,

Happily to wive and thrive, as best I may.

Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home,

And so am come abroad to see the world.

Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee

And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favored wife?

Thou 'dst thank me but a little for my counsel--

And yet I'll promise thee she shall be rich,

And very rich. But thou 'rt too much my friend,

And I'll not wish thee to her.

Signior Hortensio, 'twixt such friends as we

Few words suffice. And therefore, if thou know

One rich enough to be Petruchio's wife

(As wealth is burden of my wooing dance),

Be she as foul as was Florentius' love,

As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd

As Socrates' Xanthippe, or a worse,

She moves me not, or not removes at least

Affection's edge in me, were she as rough

As are the swelling Adriatic seas.

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;

If wealthily, then happily in Padua.

Nay, look you, sir, he tells you

flatly what his mind is. Why, give him gold enough

and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby, or an

old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head, though she

have as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses. Why,

nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.

Petruchio, since we are stepped thus far in,

I will continue that I broached in jest.

I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife

With wealth enough, and young and beauteous,

Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman.

Her only fault, and that is faults enough,

Is that she is intolerable curst,

And shrewd, and froward, so beyond all measure

That, were my state far worser than it is,

I would not wed her for a mine of gold.

Hortensio, peace. Thou know'st not gold's effect.

Tell me her father's name, and 'tis enough;

For I will board her, though she chide as loud

As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.

Her father is Baptista Minola,

An affable and courteous gentleman.

Her name is Katherina Minola,

Renowned in Padua for her scolding tongue.

I know her father, though I know not her,

And he knew my deceased father well.

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her,

And therefore let me be thus bold with you

To give you over at this first encounter--

Unless you will accompany me thither.

I pray you, sir, let him go while

the humor lasts. O' my word, an she knew him as

well as I do, she would think scolding would do little

good upon him. She may perhaps call him half a

score knaves or so. Why, that's nothing; an he begin

once, he'll rail in his rope tricks. I'll tell you what,

sir, an she stand him but a little, he will throw a

figure in her face and so disfigure her with it that

she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat.

You know him not, sir.

Tarry, Petruchio. I must go with thee,

For in Baptista's keep my treasure is.

He hath the jewel of my life in hold,

His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca,

And her withholds from me and other more,

Suitors to her and rivals in my love,

Supposing it a thing impossible,

For those defects I have before rehearsed,

That ever Katherina will be wooed.

Therefore this order hath Baptista ta'en,

That none shall have access unto Bianca

Till Katherine the curst have got a husband.

Katherine the curst,

A title for a maid, of all titles the worst.

Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace

And offer me disguised in sober robes

To old Baptista as a schoolmaster

Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca,

That so I may, by this device at least,

Have leave and leisure to make love to her

And unsuspected court her by herself.

Here's no knavery! See, to beguile the old

folks, how the young folks lay their heads together!

Master, master, look about you. Who goes there, ha?

Peace, Grumio, it is the rival of my love.

Petruchio, stand by awhile.

A proper stripling, and an amorous.

O, very well, I have perused the note.

Hark you, sir, I'll have them very fairly bound,

All books of love. See that at any hand,

And see you read no other lectures to her.

You understand me. Over and beside

Signior Baptista's liberality,

I'll mend it with a largess. Take your paper too.

And let me have them very well perfumed,

For she is sweeter than perfume itself

To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

Whate'er I read to her, I'll plead for you

As for my patron, stand you so assured,

As firmly as yourself were still in place,

Yea, and perhaps with more successful words

Than you--unless you were a scholar, sir.

O this learning, what a thing it is!

O this woodcock, what an ass it is!

Peace, sirrah.

Grumio, mum.

God save you, Signior Gremio.

And you are well met, Signior Hortensio.

Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola.

I promised to enquire carefully

About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca,

And by good fortune I have lighted well

On this young man, for learning and behavior

Fit for her turn, well read in poetry

And other books--good ones, I warrant you.

'Tis well. And I have met a gentleman

Hath promised me to help me to another,

A fine musician to instruct our mistress.

So shall I no whit be behind in duty

To fair Bianca, so beloved of me.

Beloved of me, and that my deeds shall prove.

And that his bags shall prove.

Gremio, 'tis now no time to vent our love.

Listen to me, and if you speak me fair

I'll tell you news indifferent good for either.

Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,

Upon agreement from us to his liking,

Will undertake to woo curst Katherine,

Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.

So said, so done, is well.

Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

I know she is an irksome, brawling scold.

If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

No? Sayst me so, friend? What countryman?

Born in Verona, old Antonio's son.

My father dead, my fortune lives for me,

And I do hope good days and long to see.

Oh, sir, such a life with such a wife were strange.

But if you have a stomach, to 't, i' God's name!

You shall have me assisting you in all.

But will you woo this wildcat?

Will I live?

Will he woo her? Ay, or I'll hang her.

Why came I hither but to that intent?

Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?

Have I not in my time heard lions roar?

Have I not heard the sea, puffed up with winds,

Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?

Have I not heard great ordnance in the field

And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?

Have I not in a pitched battle heard

Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?

And do you tell me of a woman's tongue,

That gives not half so great a blow to hear

As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?

Tush, tush, fear boys with bugs!

For he fears none.

Hortensio, hark.

This gentleman is happily arrived,

My mind presumes, for his own good and yours.

I promised we would be contributors

And bear his charge of wooing whatsoe'er.

And so we will, provided that he win her.

I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

Gentlemen, God save you. If I may be bold,

Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way

To the house of Signior Baptista Minola?

He that has the two fair daughters--is 't

he you mean?

Even he, Biondello.

Hark you, sir, you mean not her to--

Perhaps him and her, sir. What have you to do?

Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.

I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let's away.

Well begun, Tranio.

Sir, a word ere you go.

Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

An if I be, sir, is it any offense?

No, if without more words you will get you hence.

Why sir, I pray, are not the streets as free

For me, as for you?

But so is not she.

For what reason, I beseech you?

For this reason, if you'll know:

That she's the choice love of Signior Gremio.

That she's the chosen of Signior Hortensio.

Softly, my masters. If you be gentlemen,

Do me this right: hear me with patience.

Baptista is a noble gentleman

To whom my father is not all unknown,

And were his daughter fairer than she is,

She may more suitors have, and me for one.

Fair Leda's daughter had a thousand wooers.

Then well one more may fair Bianca have.

And so she shall. Lucentio shall make one,

Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

What, this gentleman will out-talk us all!

Sir, give him head; I know he'll prove a jade.

Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,

Did you yet ever see Baptista's daughter?

No, sir, but hear I do that he hath two,

The one as famous for a scolding tongue

As is the other for beauteous modesty.

Sir, sir, the first's for me; let her go by.

Yea, leave that labor to great Hercules,

And let it be more than Alcides' twelve.

Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth:

The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,

Her father keeps from all access of suitors

And will not promise her to any man

Until the elder sister first be wed.

The younger then is free, and not before.

If it be so, sir, that you are the man

Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest,

And if you break the ice and do this feat,

Achieve the elder, set the younger free

For our access, whose hap shall be to have her

Will not so graceless be to be ingrate.

Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive.

And since you do profess to be a suitor,

You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,

To whom we all rest generally beholding.

Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof,

Please you we may contrive this afternoon

And quaff carouses to our mistress' health,

And do as adversaries do in law,

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

O excellent motion! Fellows, let's be gone.

The motion's good indeed, and be it so.--

Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto.

Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,

To make a bondmaid and a slave of me.

That I disdain. But for these other goods--

Unbind my hands, I'll pull them off myself,

Yea, all my raiment to my petticoat,

Or what you will command me will I do,

So well I know my duty to my elders.

Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell

Whom thou lov'st best. See thou dissemble not.

Believe me, sister, of all the men alive

I never yet beheld that special face

Which I could fancy more than any other.

Minion, thou liest. Is 't not Hortensio?

If you affect him, sister, here I swear

I'll plead for you myself, but you shall have him.

O, then belike you fancy riches more.

You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

Is it for him you do envy me so?

Nay, then, you jest, and now I well perceive

You have but jested with me all this while.

I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

If that be jest, then all the rest was so.

Why, how now, dame, whence grows this

insolence?--

Bianca, stand aside.--Poor girl, she weeps!

Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.

For shame, thou hilding of a devilish

spirit!

Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong

thee?

When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

Her silence flouts me, and I'll be revenged!

What, in my sight?--Bianca, get thee in.

What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see

She is your treasure, she must have a husband,

I must dance barefoot on her wedding day

And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell.

Talk not to me. I will go sit and weep

Till I can find occasion of revenge.

Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I?

But who comes here?

Good morrow, neighbor Baptista.

Good morrow, neighbor Gremio.--God

save you, gentlemen.

And you, good sir. Pray, have you not a daughter

Called Katherina, fair and virtuous?

I have a daughter, sir, called Katherina.

You are too blunt. Go to it orderly.

You wrong me, Signior Gremio. Give me leave.--

I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,

That hearing of her beauty and her wit,

Her affability and bashful modesty,

Her wondrous qualities and mild behavior,

Am bold to show myself a forward guest

Within your house, to make mine eye the witness

Of that report which I so oft have heard,

And, for an entrance to my entertainment,

I do present you with a man of mine,

Cunning in music and the mathematics,

To instruct her fully in those sciences,

Whereof I know she is not ignorant.

Accept of him, or else you do me wrong.

His name is Litio, born in Mantua.

You're welcome, sir, and he for your good sake.

But for my daughter Katherine, this I know,

She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

I see you do not mean to part with her,

Or else you like not of my company.

Mistake me not. I speak but as I find.

Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name?

Petruchio is my name, Antonio's son,

A man well known throughout all Italy.

I know him well. You are welcome for his sake.

Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray

Let us that are poor petitioners speak too!

Bacare, you are marvelous forward.

O, pardon me, Signior Gremio, I would fain be

doing.

I doubt it not, sir. But you will curse your wooing.

Neighbor, this is a gift very grateful,

I am sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself,

that have been more kindly beholding to you than

any, freely give unto you this young scholar

that hath

been long studying at Rheims, as cunning in Greek,

Latin, and other languages as the other in music and

mathematics. His name is Cambio. Pray accept his

service.

A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio.--Welcome,

good Cambio. But,

gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger. May I

be so bold to know the cause of your coming?

Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,

That being a stranger in this city here

Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,

Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous.

Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,

In the preferment of the eldest sister.

This liberty is all that I request,

That, upon knowledge of my parentage,

I may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo

And free access and favor as the rest.

And toward the education of your daughters

I here bestow a simple instrument

And this small packet of Greek and Latin books.

If you accept them, then their worth is great.

Lucentio is your name. Of whence, I pray?

Of Pisa, sir, son to Vincentio.

A mighty man of Pisa. By report

I know him well. You are very welcome, sir.

Take you the lute,

and you the set of books.

You shall go see your pupils presently.

Holla, within!

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen

To my daughters, and tell them both

These are their tutors. Bid them use them well.

We will go walk a little in the orchard,

And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,

And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,

And every day I cannot come to woo.

You knew my father well, and in him me,

Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,

Which I have bettered rather than decreased.

Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love,

What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

After my death, the one half of my lands,

And, in possession, twenty thousand crowns.

And, for that dowry, I'll assure her of

Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,

In all my lands and leases whatsoever.

Let specialties be therefore drawn between us,

That covenants may be kept on either hand.

Ay, when the special thing is well obtained,

That is, her love, for that is all in all.

Why, that is nothing. For I tell you, father,

I am as peremptory as she proud-minded;

And where two raging fires meet together,

They do consume the thing that feeds their fury.

Though little fire grows great with little wind,

Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all.

So I to her and so she yields to me,

For I am rough and woo not like a babe.

Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed.

But be thou armed for some unhappy words.

Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds,

That shakes not, though they blow perpetually.

How now, my friend, why dost thou look so pale?

For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

I think she'll sooner prove a soldier!

Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

Why, no, for she hath broke the lute to me.

I did but tell her she mistook her frets,

And bowed her hand to teach her fingering,

When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,

Frets call you these? quoth she. I'll fume with

them!

And with that word she struck me on the head,

And through the instrument my pate made way,

And there I stood amazed for a while,

As on a pillory, looking through the lute,

While she did call me rascal fiddler,

And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,

As had she studied to misuse me so.

Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench.

I love her ten times more than ere I did.

O, how I long to have some chat with her!

Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited.

Proceed in practice with my younger daughter.

She's apt to learn, and thankful for good turns.--

Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,

Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?

I pray you do. I'll attend her here--

And woo her with some spirit when she comes!

Say that she rail, why then I'll tell her plain

She sings as sweetly as a nightingale.

Say that she frown, I'll say she looks as clear

As morning roses newly washed with dew.

Say she be mute and will not speak a word,

Then I'll commend her volubility

And say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks

As though she bid me stay by her a week.

If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day

When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.

But here she comes--and now, Petruchio, speak.

Good morrow, Kate, for that's your name, I hear.

Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing.

They call me Katherine that do talk of me.

You lie, in faith, for you are called plain Kate,

And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst.

But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,

Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate

(For dainties are all Kates)--and therefore, Kate,

Take this of me, Kate of my consolation:

Hearing thy mildness praised in every town,

Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded

(Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs),

Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.

Moved, in good time! Let him that moved you

hither

Remove you hence. I knew you at the first

You were a movable.

Why, what's a movable?

A joint stool.

Thou hast hit it. Come, sit on me.

Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

Women are made to bear, and so are you.

No such jade as you, if me you mean.

Alas, good Kate, I will not burden thee,

For knowing thee to be but young and light--

Too light for such a swain as you to catch,

And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

Should be--should buzz!

Well ta'en, and like a

buzzard.

O slow-winged turtle, shall a buzzard take thee?

Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

Come, come, you wasp! I' faith, you are too angry.

If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

My remedy is then to pluck it out.

Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting?

In his tail.

In his tongue.

Whose tongue?

Yours, if you talk of tales, and so farewell.

What, with my tongue in your tail?

Nay, come again, good Kate. I am a gentleman--

That I'll try.

I swear I'll cuff you if you strike again.

So may you lose your arms.

If you strike me, you are no gentleman,

And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

A herald, Kate? O, put me in thy books.

What is your crest? A coxcomb?

A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

No cock of mine. You crow too like a craven.

Nay, come, Kate, come. You must not look so sour.

It is my fashion when I see a crab.

Why, here's no crab, and therefore look not sour.

There is, there is.

Then show it me.

Had I a glass, I would.

What, you mean my face?

Well aimed of such a young one.

Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

Yet you are withered.

'Tis with cares.

I care not.

Nay, hear you, Kate--in sooth, you 'scape not so.

I chafe you if I tarry. Let me go.

No, not a whit. I find you passing gentle.

'Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,

And now I find report a very liar.

For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing

courteous,

But slow in speech, yet sweet as springtime flowers.

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,

Nor bite the lip as angry wenches will,

Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk.

But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers,

With gentle conference, soft, and affable.

Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?

O sland'rous world! Kate like the hazel twig

Is straight, and slender, and as brown in hue

As hazelnuts, and sweeter than the kernels.

O, let me see thee walk! Thou dost not halt.

Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.

Did ever Dian so become a grove

As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?

O, be thou Dian and let her be Kate,

And then let Kate be chaste and Dian sportful.

Where did you study all this goodly speech?

It is extempore, from my mother wit.

A witty mother, witless else her son.

Am I not wise?

Yes, keep you warm.

Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed.

And therefore, setting all this chat aside,

Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented

That you shall be my wife, your dowry 'greed on,

And, will you, nill you, I will marry you.

Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn,

For by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,

Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,

Thou must be married to no man but me.

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate

Conformable as other household Kates.

Here comes your father. Never make denial.

I must and will have Katherine to my wife.

Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my

daughter?

How but well, sir? How but well?

It were impossible I should speed amiss.

Why, how now, daughter Katherine? In your

dumps?

Call you me daughter? Now I promise you

You have showed a tender fatherly regard,

To wish me wed to one half lunatic,

A madcap ruffian and a swearing Jack,

That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

Father, 'tis thus: yourself and all the world

That talked of her have talked amiss of her.

If she be curst, it is for policy,

For she's not froward, but modest as the dove;

She is not hot, but temperate as the morn.

For patience she will prove a second Grissel,

And Roman Lucrece for her chastity.

And to conclude, we have 'greed so well together

That upon Sunday is the wedding day.

I'll see thee hanged on Sunday first.

Hark, Petruchio, she says she'll see thee

hanged first.

Is this your speeding? Nay,

then, goodnight our part.

Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself.

If she and I be pleased, what's that to you?

'Tis bargained 'twixt us twain, being alone,

That she shall still be curst in company.

I tell you, 'tis incredible to believe

How much she loves me. O, the kindest Kate!

She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss

She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,

That in a twink she won me to her love.

O, you are novices! 'Tis a world to see

How tame, when men and women are alone,

A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.--

Give me thy hand, Kate. I will unto Venice

To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding day.--

Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests.

I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine.

I know not what to say, but give me your hands.

God send you joy, Petruchio. 'Tis a match.

Amen, say we. We will be witnesses.

Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.

I will to Venice. Sunday comes apace.

We will have rings, and things, and fine array,

And kiss me, Kate. We will be married o' Sunday.

Was ever match clapped up so suddenly?

Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's part

And venture madly on a desperate mart.

'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you.

'Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

The gain I seek, is quiet in the match.

No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.

But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter.

Now is the day we long have looked for.

I am your neighbor and was suitor first.

And I am one that love Bianca more

Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess.

Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

Graybeard, thy love doth freeze.

But thine doth fry!

Skipper, stand back. 'Tis age that nourisheth.

But youth in ladies' eyes that flourisheth.

Content you, gentlemen. I will compound this strife.

'Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of both

That can assure my daughter greatest dower

Shall have my Bianca's love.

Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her?

First, as you know, my house within the city

Is richly furnished with plate and gold,

Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;

My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;

In ivory coffers I have stuffed my crowns,

In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,

Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,

Fine linen, Turkey cushions bossed with pearl,

Valance of Venice gold in needlework,

Pewter and brass, and all things that belongs

To house or housekeeping. Then, at my farm

I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,

Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls,

And all things answerable to this portion.

Myself am struck in years, I must confess,

And if I die tomorrow this is hers,

If whilst I live she will be only mine.

That only came well in. Sir, list to

me:

I am my father's heir and only son.

If I may have your daughter to my wife,

I'll leave her houses three or four as good,

Within rich Pisa walls, as any one

Old Signior Gremio has in Padua,

Besides two thousand ducats by the year

Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.--

What, have I pinched you, Signior Gremio?

Two thousand ducats by the year of land?

My land amounts not to so much in all.--

That she shall have, besides an argosy

That now is lying in Marcellus' road.

What, have I choked you with an argosy?

Gremio, 'tis known my father hath no less

Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses

And twelve tight galleys. These I will assure her,

And twice as much whate'er thou off'rest next.

Nay, I have offered all. I have no more,

And she can have no more than all I have.

If you like me, she shall have me and

mine.

Why, then, the maid is mine from all the world,

By your firm promise. Gremio is outvied.

I must confess your offer is the best,

And, let your father make her the assurance,

She is your own; else, you must pardon me.

If you should die before him, where's her dower?

That's but a cavil. He is old, I young.

And may not young men die as well as old?

Well, gentlemen, I am thus resolved:

On Sunday next, you know

My daughter Katherine is to be married.

Now, on the Sunday

following, shall Bianca

Be bride to you, if you make this assurance.

If not, to Signior Gremio.

And so I take my leave, and thank you both.

Adieu, good neighbor.

Now I fear thee not.

Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool

To give thee all and in his waning age

Set foot under thy table. Tut, a toy!

An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

A vengeance on your crafty withered hide!--

Yet I have faced it with a card of ten.

'Tis in my head to do my master good.

I see no reason but supposed Lucentio

Must get a father, called supposed Vincentio--

And that's a wonder. Fathers commonly

Do get their children. But in this case of wooing,

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

Fiddler, forbear. You grow too forward, sir.

Have you so soon forgot the entertainment

Her sister Katherine welcomed you withal?

But, wrangling pedant, this is

The patroness of heavenly harmony.

Then give me leave to have prerogative,

And when in music we have spent an hour,

Your lecture shall have leisure for as much.

Preposterous ass, that never read so far

To know the cause why music was ordained.

Was it not to refresh the mind of man

After his studies or his usual pain?

Then give me leave to read philosophy,

And, while I pause, serve in your harmony.

Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong

To strive for that which resteth in my choice.

I am no breeching scholar in the schools.

I'll not be tied to hours, nor 'pointed times,

But learn my lessons as I please myself.

And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down.

Take you your instrument, play you

the whiles;

His lecture will be done ere you have tuned.

You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

That will be never. Tune your

instrument.

Where left we last?

Here, madam:

Hic ibat Simois, hic est Sigeia tellus,

Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.

Conster them.

Hic ibat, as I told you before, Simois, I am

Lucentio, hic est, son unto Vincentio of Pisa,

Sigeia tellus, disguised thus to get your love, Hic

steterat, and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing,

Priami, is my man Tranio, regia, bearing my port,

celsa senis, that we might beguile the old pantaloon.

Madam, my instrument's in

tune.

Let's hear. Oh fie, the treble jars!

Spit in the hole, man, and tune

again.

Now let me see if I can conster it. Hic ibat

Simois, I know you not; hic est Sigeia tellus, I trust

you not; Hic steterat Priami, take heed he hear us

not; regia, presume not; celsa senis, despair not.

Madam, 'tis now in tune.

All but the bass.

The bass is right. 'Tis the base knave that jars.

How fiery and forward our pedant is.

Now for my life the knave doth court my love!

Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet.

In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

Mistrust it not, for sure Aeacides

Was Ajax, called so from his grandfather.

I must believe my master; else, I promise you,

I should be arguing still upon that doubt.

But let it rest.--Now, Litio, to you.

Good master, take it not unkindly, pray,

That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

You may go walk, and give me leave awhile.

My lessons make no music in three parts.

Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait

And watch withal, for, but I be deceived,

Our fine musician groweth amorous.

Madam, before you touch the instrument,

To learn the order of my fingering

I must begin with rudiments of art,

To teach you gamut in a briefer sort,

More pleasant, pithy, and effectual

Than hath been taught by any of my trade.

And there it is in writing fairly drawn.

Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

Gamut I am, the ground of all accord:

A re, to plead Hortensio's passion;

B mi, Bianca, take him for thy lord,

C fa ut, that loves with all affection;

D sol re, one clef, two notes have I;

E la mi, show pity or I die.

Call you this gamut? Tut, I like it not.

Old fashions please me best. I am not so nice

To change true rules for odd inventions.

Mistress, your father prays you leave your books

And help to dress your sister's chamber up.

You know tomorrow is the wedding day.

Farewell, sweet masters both. I must be gone.

Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

But I have cause to pry into this pedant.

Methinks he looks as though he were in love.

Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble

To cast thy wand'ring eyes on every stale,

Seize thee that list! If once I find thee ranging,

Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.

Signior Lucentio, this is the 'pointed day

That Katherine and Petruchio should be married,

And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.

What will be said? What mockery will it be,

To want the bridegroom when the priest attends

To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage?

What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?

No shame but mine. I must, forsooth, be forced

To give my hand, opposed against my heart,

Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen,

Who wooed in haste and means to wed at leisure.

I told you, I, he was a frantic fool,

Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behavior,

And, to be noted for a merry man,

He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage,

Make friends, invite, and proclaim the banns,

Yet never means to wed where he hath wooed.

Now must the world point at poor Katherine

And say Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife,

If it would please him come and marry her.

Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too.

Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,

Whatever fortune stays him from his word.

Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;

Though he be merry, yet withal he's honest.

Would Katherine had never seen him, though!

Go, girl. I cannot blame thee now to weep,

For such an injury would vex a very saint,

Much more a shrew of thy impatient humor.

Master, master, news! And such old

news as you never heard of!

Is it new and old too? How may that be?

Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio's

coming?

Is he come?

Why, no, sir.

What then?

He is coming.

When will he be here?

When he stands where I am, and sees you there.

But say, what to thine old news?

Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and

an old jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned,

a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one

buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta'en

out of the town armory, with a broken hilt, and

chapeless; with two broken points; his horse

hipped, with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no

kindred, besides possessed with the glanders and

like to mose in the chine, troubled with the lampass,

infected with the fashions, full of windgalls,

sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure

of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn

with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten,

near-legged before, and with a half-checked

bit and a headstall of sheep's leather,

which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling,

hath been often burst, and now repaired with

knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman's

crupper of velour, which hath two letters for her

name fairly set down in studs, and here and there

pieced with packthread.

Who comes with him?

Oh, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparisoned

like the horse: with a linen stock on one leg

and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with

a red and blue list; an old hat, and the humor of

forty fancies pricked in 't for a feather. A monster,

a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian

footboy or a gentleman's lackey.

'Tis some odd humor pricks him to this fashion,

Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-appareled.

I am glad he's come, howsoe'er he comes.

Why, sir, he comes not.

Didst thou not say he comes?

Who? That Petruchio came?

Ay, that Petruchio came!

No, sir, I say his horse comes with him on

his back.

Why, that's all one.

Nay, by Saint Jamy.

I hold you a penny,

A horse and a man

Is more than one,

And yet not many.

Come, where be these gallants? Who's at home?

You are welcome, sir.

And yet I come not well.

And yet you halt not.

Not so well appareled as I wish

you were.

Were it better I should rush in thus--

But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride?

How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown.

And wherefore gaze this goodly company

As if they saw some wondrous monument,

Some comet or unusual prodigy?

Why, sir, you know this is your wedding day.

First were we sad, fearing you would not come,

Now sadder that you come so unprovided.

Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate,

An eyesore to our solemn festival.

And tell us what occasion of import

Hath all so long detained you from your wife

And sent you hither so unlike yourself.

Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear.

Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,

Though in some part enforced to digress,

Which at more leisure I will so excuse

As you shall well be satisfied with all.

But where is Kate? I stay too long from her.

The morning wears. 'Tis time we were at church.

See not your bride in these unreverent robes.

Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine.

Not I, believe me. Thus I'll visit her.

But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

Good sooth, even thus. Therefore, ha' done with

words.

To me she's married, not unto my clothes.

Could I repair what she will wear in me,

As I can change these poor accoutrements,

'Twere well for Kate and better for myself.

But what a fool am I to chat with you

When I should bid good morrow to my bride

And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

He hath some meaning in his mad attire.

We will persuade him, be it possible,

To put on better ere he go to church.

I'll after him, and see the event of this.

But, sir, to love concerneth us to add

Her father's liking, which to bring to pass,

As I before imparted to your Worship,

I am to get a man (whate'er he be

It skills not much, we'll fit him to our turn),

And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,

And make assurance here in Padua

Of greater sums than I have promised.

So shall you quietly enjoy your hope

And marry sweet Bianca with consent.

Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster

Doth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly,

'Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage,

Which, once performed, let all the world say no,

I'll keep mine own despite of all the world.

That by degrees we mean to look into,

And watch our vantage in this business.

We'll overreach the graybeard, Gremio,

The narrow prying father, Minola,

The quaint musician, amorous Litio,

All for my master's sake, Lucentio.

Signior Gremio, came you from the church?

As willingly as e'er I came from school.

And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

A bridegroom, say you? 'Tis a groom indeed,

A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

Curster than she? Why, 'tis impossible.

Why, he's a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

Why, she's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam.

Tut, she's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him.

I'll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest

Should ask if Katherine should be his wife,

Ay, by gog's wouns! quoth he, and swore so loud

That, all amazed, the priest let fall the book,

And as he stooped again to take it up,

This mad-brained bridegroom took him such a cuff

That down fell priest and book, and book and priest.

Now, take them up, quoth he, if any list.

What said the wench when he rose again?

Trembled and shook, for why he stamped and swore

As if the vicar meant to cozen him.

But after many ceremonies done,

He calls for wine. A health! quoth he, as if

He had been aboard, carousing to his mates

After a storm; quaffed off the muscatel

And threw the sops all in the sexton's face,

Having no other reason

But that his beard grew thin and hungerly,

And seemed to ask him sops as he was drinking.

This done, he took the bride about the neck

And kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack

That at the parting all the church did echo.

And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame,

And after me I know the rout is coming.

Such a mad marriage never was before!

Hark, hark, I hear the minstrels play.

Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains.

I know you think to dine with me today

And have prepared great store of wedding cheer,

But so it is, my haste doth call me hence,

And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

Is 't possible you will away tonight?

I must away today, before night come.

Make it no wonder. If you knew my business,

You would entreat me rather go than stay.

And, honest company, I thank you all,

That have beheld me give away myself

To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife.

Dine with my father, drink a health to me,

For I must hence, and farewell to you all.

Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

It may not be.

Let me entreat you.

It cannot be.

Let me entreat you.

I am content.

Are you content to stay?

I am content you shall entreat me stay,

But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

Now, if you love me, stay.

Grumio, my horse.

Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the

horses.

Nay, then,

Do what thou canst, I will not go today,

No, nor tomorrow, not till I please myself.

The door is open, sir. There lies your way.

You may be jogging whiles your boots are green.

For me, I'll not be gone till I please myself.

'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom,

That take it on you at the first so roundly.

O Kate, content thee. Prithee, be not angry.

I will be angry. What hast thou to do?--

Father, be quiet. He shall stay my leisure.

Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner.

I see a woman may be made a fool

If she had not a spirit to resist.

They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.--

Obey the bride, you that attend on her.

Go to the feast, revel and domineer,

Carouse full measure to her maidenhead,

Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves.

But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.

Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;

I will be master of what is mine own.

She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,

My household stuff, my field, my barn,

My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything.

And here she stands, touch her whoever dare.

I'll bring mine action on the proudest he

That stops my way in Padua.--Grumio,

Draw forth thy weapon. We are beset with thieves.

Rescue thy mistress if thou be a man!--

Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch thee,

Kate.

I'll buckler thee against a million.

Nay, let them go. A couple of quiet ones!

Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.

Of all mad matches never was the like.

Mistress, what's your opinion of your sister?

That being mad herself, she's madly mated.

I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.

Neighbors and friends, though bride and

bridegroom wants

For to supply the places at the table,

You know there wants no junkets at the feast.

Lucentio, you shall supply the

bridegroom's place,

And let Bianca take her sister's room.

Shall sweet Bianca practice how to bride it?

She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let's go.

Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters,

and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was

ever man so 'rayed? Was ever man so weary? I am

sent before to make a fire, and they are coming

after to warm them. Now were not I a little pot and

soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my

tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my

belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me. But I

with blowing the fire shall warm myself. For, considering

the weather, a taller man than I will take

cold.--Holla, ho, Curtis!

Who is that calls so coldly?

A piece of ice. If thou doubt it, thou mayst

slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater

a run but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis!

Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

Oh, ay, Curtis, ay, and therefore fire, fire! Cast

on no water.

Is she so hot a shrew as she's reported?

She was, good Curtis, before this frost. But

thou know'st winter tames man, woman, and

beast, for it hath tamed my old master and my new

mistress and myself, fellow Curtis.

Away, you three-inch fool, I am no beast!

Am I but three inches? Why, thy horn is a

foot, and so long am I, at the least. But wilt thou

make a fire? Or shall I complain on thee to our

mistress, whose hand (she being now at hand) thou

shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in

thy hot office?

I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the

world?

A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine,

and therefore fire! Do thy duty, and have thy duty,

for my master and mistress are almost frozen to

death.

There's fire ready. And therefore, good Grumio,

the news!

Why, Jack boy, ho boy! and as much news

as wilt thou.

Come, you are so full of cony-catching.

Why, therefore fire, for I have caught extreme

cold. Where's the cook? Is supper ready, the house

trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept, the servingmen

in their new fustian, their white stockings,

and every officer his wedding garment on? Be

the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, the

carpets laid, and everything in order?

All ready. And therefore, I pray thee, news.

First, know my horse is tired, my master and

mistress fallen out.

How?

Out of their saddles into the dirt, and thereby

hangs a tale.

Let's ha' t, good Grumio.

Lend thine ear.

Here.

There!

This 'tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

And therefore 'tis called a sensible tale. And

this cuff was but to knock at your ear and beseech

list'ning. Now I begin: Imprimis, we came down a

foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress--

Both of one horse?

What's that to thee?

Why, a horse.

Tell thou the tale! But hadst thou not crossed

me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell,

and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard

in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled, how he

left her with the horse upon her, how he beat me

because her horse stumbled, how she waded

through the dirt to pluck him off me, how he swore,

how she prayed that never prayed before, how I

cried, how the horses ran away, how her bridle was

burst, how I lost my crupper, with many things of

worthy memory which now shall die in oblivion,

and thou return unexperienced to thy grave.

By this reck'ning, he is more shrew than she.

Ay, and that thou and the proudest of you all

shall find when he comes home. But what talk I of

this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Phillip,

Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest. Let their heads

be slickly combed, their blue coats brushed, and

their garters of an indifferent knit. Let them curtsy

with their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair

of my master's horse-tail till they kiss their hands.

Are they all ready?

They are.

Call them forth.

Do you hear, ho? You must meet

my master to countenance my mistress.

Why, she hath a face of her own.

Who knows not that?

Thou, it seems, that calls for company to

countenance her.

I call them forth to credit her.

Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.

Welcome home, Grumio.

How now, Grumio?

What, Grumio!

Fellow Grumio!

How now, old lad?

Welcome, you!--How now, you?--What,

you!--Fellow, you!--And thus much for greeting.

Now, my spruce companions, is all ready and all

things neat?

All things is ready. How near is our

master?

E'en at hand, alighted by this. And therefore

be not--Cock's passion, silence! I hear my master.

Where be these knaves? What, no man at door

To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse?

Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Phillip?

Here! Here, sir, here, sir!

Here, sir! Here, sir! Here, sir! Here, sir!

You loggerheaded and unpolished grooms.

What? No attendance? No regard? No duty?

Where is the foolish knave I sent before?

Here, sir, as foolish as I was before.

You peasant swain, you whoreson malt-horse

drudge!

Did I not bid thee meet me in the park

And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?

Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made,

And Gabriel's pumps were all unpinked i' th' heel.

There was no link to color Peter's hat,

And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing.

There were none fine but Adam, Rafe, and Gregory.

The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly.

Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in!

Where is the life that late I led?

Where are those--

Sit down, Kate, and welcome.

Soud, soud, soud, soud!

Why, when, I say?--Nay, good sweet Kate, be

merry.--

Off with my boots, you rogues, you villains! When?

It was the friar of orders gray,

As he forth walked on his way--

Out, you rogue! You pluck my foot awry.

Take that!

And mend the plucking of the other.--

Be merry, Kate.--Some water here! What ho!

Where's my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence

And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither.

One, Kate, that you must kiss and be acquainted

with.--

Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?--

Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.--

You whoreson villain, will you let it fall?

Patience, I pray you, 'twas a fault unwilling.

A whoreson beetle-headed flap-eared knave!--

Come, Kate, sit down. I know you have a stomach.

Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?--

What's this? Mutton?

Ay.

Who brought it?

I.

'Tis burnt, and so is all the meat.

What dogs are these? Where is the rascal cook?

How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser

And serve it thus to me that love it not?

There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all!

You heedless joltheads and unmannered slaves!

What, do you grumble? I'll be with you straight.

I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet.

The meat was well, if you were so contented.

I tell thee, Kate, 'twas burnt and dried away,

And I expressly am forbid to touch it,

For it engenders choler, planteth anger,

And better 'twere that both of us did fast

(Since of ourselves, ourselves are choleric)

Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.

Be patient. Tomorrow 't shall be mended,

And for this night we'll fast for company.

Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.

Peter, didst ever see the like?

He kills her in her own humor.

Where is he?

In her chamber,

Making a sermon of continency to her,

And rails and swears and rates, that she (poor soul)

Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,

And sits as one new-risen from a dream.

Away, away, for he is coming hither!

Thus have I politicly begun my reign,

And 'tis my hope to end successfully.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty,

And, till she stoop, she must not be full-gorged,

For then she never looks upon her lure.

Another way I have to man my haggard,

To make her come and know her keeper's call.

That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites

That bate and beat and will not be obedient.

She ate no meat today, nor none shall eat.

Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not.

As with the meat, some undeserved fault

I'll find about the making of the bed,

And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster,

This way the coverlet, another way the sheets.

Ay, and amid this hurly I intend

That all is done in reverend care of her.

And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night,

And, if she chance to nod, I'll rail and brawl,

And with the clamor keep her still awake.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness.

And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humor.

He that knows better how to tame a shrew,

Now let him speak; 'tis charity to shew.

Is 't possible, friend Litio, that mistress Bianca

Doth fancy any other but Lucentio?

I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.

Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said,

Stand by, and mark the manner of his teaching.

Now mistress, profit you in what you read?

What, master, read you? First resolve me that.

I read that I profess, The Art to Love.

And may you prove, sir, master of your art.

While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart.

Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray,

You that durst swear that your mistress Bianca

Loved none in the world so well as Lucentio.

O despiteful love, unconstant womankind!

I tell thee, Litio, this is wonderful!

Mistake no more. I am not Litio,

Nor a musician as I seem to be,

But one that scorn to live in this disguise

For such a one as leaves a gentleman

And makes a god of such a cullion.

Know, sir, that I am called Hortensio.

Signior Hortensio, I have often heard

Of your entire affection to Bianca,

And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,

I will with you, if you be so contented,

Forswear Bianca and her love forever.

See how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,

Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow

Never to woo her more, but do forswear her

As one unworthy all the former favors

That I have fondly flattered her withal.

And here I take the like unfeigned oath,

Never to marry with her, though she would entreat.

Fie on her, see how beastly she doth court him!

Would all the world but he had quite forsworn!

For me, that I may surely keep mine oath,

I will be married to a wealthy widow

Ere three days pass, which hath as long loved me

As I have loved this proud disdainful haggard.

And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.

Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,

Shall win my love, and so I take my leave,

In resolution as I swore before.

Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace

As 'longeth to a lover's blessed case!

Nay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love,

And have forsworn you with Hortensio.

Tranio, you jest. But have you both forsworn me?

Mistress, we have.

Then we are rid of Litio.

I' faith, he'll have a lusty widow now

That shall be wooed and wedded in a day.

God give him joy.

Ay, and he'll tame her.

He says so, Tranio?

Faith, he is gone unto the taming school.

The taming school? What, is there such a place?

Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master,

That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long

To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue.

O master, master, I have watched so long

That I am dog-weary, but at last I spied

An ancient angel coming down the hill

Will serve the turn.

What is he, Biondello?

Master, a marcantant, or a pedant,

I know not what, but formal in apparel,

In gait and countenance surely like a father.

And what of him, Tranio?

If he be credulous, and trust my tale,

I'll make him glad to seem Vincentio

And give assurance to Baptista Minola

As if he were the right Vincentio.

Take in your love, and then let me alone.

God save you, sir.

And you, sir. You are welcome.

Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest?

Sir, at the farthest for a week or two,

But then up farther, and as far as Rome,

And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.

What countryman, I pray?

Of Mantua.

Of Mantua, sir? Marry, God forbid!

And come to Padua, careless of your life?

My life, sir? How, I pray? For that goes hard.

'Tis death for anyone in Mantua

To come to Padua. Know you not the cause?

Your ships are stayed at Venice, and the Duke,

For private quarrel 'twixt your duke and him,

Hath published and proclaimed it openly.

'Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come,

You might have heard it else proclaimed about.

Alas, sir, it is worse for me than so,

For I have bills for money by exchange

From Florence, and must here deliver them.

Well, sir, to do you courtesy,

This will I do, and this I will advise you.

First tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?

Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been,

Pisa renowned for grave citizens.

Among them know you one Vincentio?

I know him not, but I have heard of him:

A merchant of incomparable wealth.

He is my father, sir, and sooth to say,

In count'nance somewhat doth resemble you.

As much as an apple doth an

oyster, and all one.

To save your life in this extremity,

This favor will I do you for his sake

(And think it not the worst of all your fortunes

That you are like to Sir Vincentio):

His name and credit shall you undertake,

And in my house you shall be friendly lodged.

Look that you take upon you as you should.

You understand me, sir. So shall you stay

Till you have done your business in the city.

If this be court'sy, sir, accept of it.

O sir, I do, and will repute you ever

The patron of my life and liberty.

Then go with me, to make the matter good.

This, by the way, I let you understand:

My father is here looked for every day

To pass assurance of a dower in marriage

'Twixt me and one Baptista's daughter here.

In all these circumstances I'll instruct you.

Go with me to clothe you as becomes you.

No, no, forsooth, I dare not for my life.

The more my wrong, the more his spite appears.

What, did he marry me to famish me?

Beggars that come unto my father's door

Upon entreaty have a present alms.

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity.

But I, who never knew how to entreat,

Nor never needed that I should entreat,

Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep,

With oaths kept waking and with brawling fed.

And that which spites me more than all these wants,

He does it under name of perfect love,

As who should say, if I should sleep or eat

'Twere deadly sickness or else present death.

I prithee, go, and get me some repast,

I care not what, so it be wholesome food.

What say you to a neat's foot?

'Tis passing good. I prithee let me have it.

I fear it is too choleric a meat.

How say you to a fat tripe finely broiled?

I like it well. Good Grumio, fetch it me.

I cannot tell. I fear 'tis choleric.

What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?

A dish that I do love to feed upon.

Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Why then, the beef, and let the mustard rest.

Nay then, I will not. You shall have the mustard

Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

Then both, or one, or any thing thou wilt.

Why then, the mustard without the beef.

Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

That feed'st me with the very name of meat.

Sorrow on thee, and all the pack of you

That triumph thus upon my misery.

Go, get thee gone, I say.

How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?

Mistress, what cheer?

Faith, as cold as can be.

Pluck up thy spirits. Look cheerfully upon me.

Here, love, thou seest how diligent I am,

To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee.

I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.

What, not a word? Nay then, thou lov'st it not,

And all my pains is sorted to no proof.

Here, take away this dish.

I pray you, let it stand.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks,

And so shall mine before you touch the meat.

I thank you, sir.

Signior Petruchio, fie, you are to blame.

Come, Mistress Kate, I'll bear you company.

Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me.--

Much good do it unto thy gentle heart.

Kate, eat apace.

And now, my honey love,

Will we return unto thy father's house

And revel it as bravely as the best,

With silken coats and caps and golden rings,

With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things,

With scarves and fans and double change of brav'ry,

With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knav'ry.

What, hast thou dined? The tailor stays thy leisure

To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure.

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments.

Lay forth the gown.

What news with you, sir?

Here is the cap your Worship did bespeak.

Why, this was molded on a porringer!

A velvet dish! Fie, fie, 'tis lewd and filthy.

Why, 'tis a cockle or a walnut shell,

A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap.

Away with it! Come, let me have a bigger.

I'll have no bigger. This doth fit the time,

And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.

When you are gentle, you shall have one too,

And not till then.

That will not be in haste.

Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak,

And speak I will. I am no child, no babe.

Your betters have endured me say my mind,

And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,

Or else my heart, concealing it, will break,

And, rather than it shall, I will be free

Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.

Why, thou sayst true. It is a paltry cap,

A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie.

I love thee well in that thou lik'st it not.

Love me, or love me not, I like the cap,

And it I will have, or I will have none.

Thy gown? Why, ay. Come, tailor, let us see 't.

O mercy God, what masking-stuff is here?

What's this? A sleeve? 'Tis like a demi-cannon.

What, up and down carved like an apple tart?

Here's snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,

Like to a censer in a barber's shop.

Why, what a devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this?

I see she's like to have neither cap nor gown.

You bid me make it orderly and well,

According to the fashion and the time.

Marry, and did. But if you be remembered,

I did not bid you mar it to the time.

Go, hop me over every kennel home,

For you shall hop without my custom, sir.

I'll none of it. Hence, make your best of it.

I never saw a better-fashioned gown,

More quaint, more pleasing, nor more

commendable.

Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

Why, true, he means to make a puppet of thee.

She says your Worship means to make a puppet of

her.

O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread,

thou thimble,

Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!

Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket, thou!

Braved in mine own house with a skein of thread?

Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,

Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard

As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'st.

I tell thee, I, that thou hast marred her gown.

Your Worship is deceived. The gown is made

Just as my master had direction.

Grumio gave order how it should be done.

I gave him no order. I gave him the stuff.

But how did you desire it should be made?

Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

But did you not request to have it cut?

Thou hast faced many things.

I have.

Face not me. Thou hast braved many men;

brave not me. I will neither be faced nor braved. I

say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown,

but I did not bid him cut it to pieces. Ergo, thou

liest.

Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify.

Read it.

The note lies in 's throat, if he say I said so.

Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown--

Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown,

sew me in the skirts of it and beat me to death with

a bottom of brown thread. I said a gown.

Proceed.

With a small-compassed cape--

I confess the cape.

With a trunk sleeve--

I confess two sleeves.

The sleeves curiously cut.

Ay, there's the villainy.

Error i' th' bill, sir, error i' th' bill! I commanded

the sleeves should be cut out and sewed

up again, and that I'll prove upon thee, though thy

little finger be armed in a thimble.

This is true that I say. An I had thee in place

where, thou shouldst know it.

I am for thee straight. Take thou the bill, give

me thy mete-yard, and spare not me.

God-a-mercy, Grumio, then he shall have

no odds.

Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.

You are i' th' right, sir, 'tis for my mistress.

Go, take it up unto thy master's use.

Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress'

gown for thy master's use!

Why, sir, what's your conceit in that?

O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think

for. Take up my mistress' gown to his master's use!

O, fie, fie, fie!

Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.

Go, take it hence. Begone, and say no

more.

Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown tomorrow.

Take no unkindness of his hasty words.

Away, I say. Commend me to thy master.

Well, come, my Kate, we will unto your father's,

Even in these honest mean habiliments.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor,

For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich,

And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,

So honor peereth in the meanest habit.

What, is the jay more precious than the lark

Because his feathers are more beautiful?

Or is the adder better than the eel

Because his painted skin contents the eye?

O no, good Kate. Neither art thou the worse

For this poor furniture and mean array.

If thou account'st it shame, lay it on me,

And therefore frolic! We will hence forthwith

To feast and sport us at thy father's house.

Go, call my men, and let us straight to

him,

And bring our horses unto Long-lane end.

There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.

Let's see, I think 'tis now some seven o'clock,

And well we may come there by dinner time.

I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two,

And 'twill be supper time ere you come there.

It shall be seven ere I go to horse.

Look what I speak, or do, or think to do,

You are still crossing it.--Sirs, let 't alone.

I will not go today, and, ere I do,

It shall be what o'clock I say it is.

Why, so, this gallant will command the sun!

Sir, this is the house. Please it you that I call?

Ay, what else? And but I be deceived,

Signior Baptista may remember me,

Near twenty years ago, in Genoa,

Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.

'Tis well. And hold your own in any case

With such austerity as 'longeth to a father.

I warrant you.

But, sir, here comes your boy.

'Twere good he were schooled.

Fear you not him.--Sirrah Biondello,

Now do your duty throughly, I advise you.

Imagine 'twere the right Vincentio.

Tut, fear not me.

But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

I told him that your father was at Venice,

And that you looked for him this day in Padua.

Thou 'rt a tall fellow. Hold thee that to drink.

Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.

Signior Baptista, you are happily met.--

Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of.

I pray you stand good father to me now.

Give me Bianca for my patrimony.

Soft, son.--

Sir, by your leave, having come to Padua

To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio

Made me acquainted with a weighty cause

Of love between your daughter and himself.

And, for the good report I hear of you,

And for the love he beareth to your daughter

And she to him, to stay him not too long,

I am content, in a good father's care,

To have him matched. And if you please to like

No worse than I, upon some agreement

Me shall you find ready and willing

With one consent to have her so bestowed,

For curious I cannot be with you,

Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

Sir, pardon me in what I have to say.

Your plainness and your shortness please me well.

Right true it is your son Lucentio here

Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him,

Or both dissemble deeply their affections.

And therefore, if you say no more than this,

That like a father you will deal with him

And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,

The match is made, and all is done.

Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best

We be affied and such assurance ta'en

As shall with either part's agreement stand?

Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know

Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants.

Besides, old Gremio is heark'ning still,

And happily we might be interrupted.

Then at my lodging, an it like you.

There doth my father lie, and there this night

We'll pass the business privately and well.

Send for your daughter by your servant here.

My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.

The worst is this: that at so slender warning

You are like to have a thin and slender pittance.

It likes me well.--Cambio, hie you home,

And bid Bianca make her ready straight.

And, if you will, tell what hath happened:

Lucentio's father is arrived in Padua,

And how she's like to be Lucentio's wife.

I pray the gods she may, with all my heart.

Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.--

Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?

Welcome! One mess is like to be your cheer.

Come, sir, we will better it in Pisa.

I follow you.

Cambio.

What sayst thou, Biondello?

You saw my master wink and laugh upon

you?

Biondello, what of that?

Faith, nothing; but 'has left me here behind

to expound the meaning or moral of his signs

and tokens.

I pray thee, moralize them.

Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with

the deceiving father of a deceitful son.

And what of him?

His daughter is to be brought by you to the

supper.

And then?

The old priest at Saint Luke's Church is at

your command at all hours.

And what of all this?

I cannot tell, except they are busied

about a counterfeit assurance. Take you assurance

of her cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum. To th'

church take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient

honest witnesses.

If this be not that you look for, I have no more to

say,

But bid Bianca farewell forever and a day.

Hear'st thou, Biondello?

I cannot tarry. I knew a wench married in

an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley

to stuff a rabbit, and so may you, sir. And so adieu,

sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint

Luke's to bid the priest be ready to come against

you come with your appendix.

I may, and will, if she be so contented.

She will be pleased. Then wherefore should I

doubt?

Hap what hap may, I'll roundly go about her.

It shall go hard if Cambio go without her.

Come on, i' God's name, once more toward our

father's.

Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!

The moon? The sun! It is not moonlight now.

I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

I know it is the sun that shines so bright.

Now, by my mother's son, and that's myself,

It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,

Or e'er I journey to your father's house.

Go on, and fetch our horses back

again.--

Evermore crossed and crossed, nothing but crossed!

Say as he says, or we shall never go.

Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,

And be it moon, or sun, or what you please.

And if you please to call it a rush candle,

Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me.

I say it is the moon.

I know it is the moon.

Nay, then you lie. It is the blessed sun.

Then God be blest, it is the blessed sun.

But sun it is not, when you say it is not,

And the moon changes even as your mind.

What you will have it named, even that it is,

And so it shall be so for Katherine.

Petruchio, go thy ways, the field is won.

Well, forward, forward. Thus the bowl should run,

And not unluckily against the bias.

But soft! Company is coming here.

Good morrow, gentle mistress, where

away?--

Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly, too,

Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?

Such war of white and red within her cheeks!

What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty

As those two eyes become that heavenly face?--

Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.--

Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake.

He will make the man mad, to make the woman of

him.

Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,

Whither away, or where is thy abode?

Happy the parents of so fair a child!

Happier the man whom favorable stars

Allots thee for his lovely bedfellow.

Why, how now, Kate? I hope thou art not mad!

This is a man--old, wrinkled, faded, withered--

And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is.

Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes

That have been so bedazzled with the sun

That everything I look on seemeth green.

Now I perceive thou art a reverend father.

Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.

Do, good old grandsire, and withal make known

Which way thou travelest. If along with us,

We shall be joyful of thy company.

Fair sir, and you, my merry mistress,

That with your strange encounter much amazed me,

My name is called Vincentio, my dwelling Pisa,

And bound I am to Padua, there to visit

A son of mine which long I have not seen.

What is his name?

Lucentio, gentle sir.

Happily met, the happier for thy son.

And now by law as well as reverend age,

I may entitle thee my loving father.

The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman,

Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not,

Nor be not grieved. She is of good esteem,

Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth;

Beside, so qualified as may beseem

The spouse of any noble gentleman.

Let me embrace with old Vincentio,

And wander we to see thy honest son,

Who will of thy arrival be full joyous.

But is this true, or is it else your pleasure,

Like pleasant travelers, to break a jest

Upon the company you overtake?

I do assure thee, father, so it is.

Come, go along and see the truth hereof,

For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.

Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart!

Have to my widow, and if she be froward,

Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward.

Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is

ready.

I fly, Biondello. But they may chance to

need thee at home. Therefore leave us.

Nay, faith, I'll see the church a' your back,

and then come back to my master's as soon as I

can.

I marvel Cambio comes not all this while.

Sir, here's the door. This is Lucentio's house.

My father's bears more toward the marketplace.

Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.

You shall not choose but drink before you go.

I think I shall command your welcome here,

And by all likelihood some cheer is toward.

They're busy within. You were best knock louder.

What's he that knocks as

he would beat down the gate?

Is Signior Lucentio within, sir?

He's within, sir, but not to

be spoken withal.

What if a man bring him a hundred pound

or two to make merry withal?

Keep your hundred

pounds to yourself. He shall need none so long as I

live.

Nay, I told you your son was

well beloved in Padua.--Do you hear, sir? To leave

frivolous circumstances, I pray you tell Signior

Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa and is

here at the door to speak with him.

Thou liest. His father is

come from Padua and here looking out at the

window.

Art thou his father?

Ay, sir, so his mother says,

if I may believe her.

Why, how now, gentleman!

Why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another

man's name.

Lay hands on the villain. I

believe he means to cosen somebody in this city

under my countenance.

I have seen them in the church

together. God send 'em good shipping! But who is

here? Mine old master Vincentio! Now we are

undone and brought to nothing.

Come hither, crack-hemp.

I hope I may choose, sir.

Come hither, you rogue! What, have you

forgot me?

Forgot you? No, sir. I could not forget you,

for I never saw you before in all my life.

What, you notorious villain, didst thou

never see thy master's father, Vincentio?

What, my old worshipful old master? Yes,

marry, sir. See where he looks out of the window.

Is 't so indeed?

Help, help, help! Here's a madman will

murder me.

Help, son! Help, Signior

Baptista!

Prithee, Kate, let's stand aside and see the

end of this controversy.

Sir, what are you that offer to

beat my servant?

What am I, sir? Nay, what are you, sir! O

immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet, a

velvet hose, a scarlet cloak, and a copatain hat! O, I

am undone, I am undone! While I play the good

husband at home, my son and my servant spend all

at the university.

How now, what's the matter?

What, is the man lunatic?

Sir, you seem a sober ancient

gentleman by your habit, but your words show you

a madman. Why, sir, what 'cerns it you if I wear

pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able

to maintain it.

Thy father! O villain, he is a sailmaker in

Bergamo.

You mistake, sir, you mistake, sir! Pray, what

do you think is his name?

His name? As if I knew not his name! I have

brought him up ever since he was three years old,

and his name is Tranio.

Away, away, mad ass! His

name is Lucentio and he is mine only son, and heir

to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio.

Lucentio? O, he hath murdered his master!

Lay hold on him, I charge you in the Duke's name.

O, my son, my son! Tell me, thou villain, where is

my son Lucentio?

Call forth an officer.

Carry this mad knave to the jail.--Father Baptista, I

charge you see that he be forthcoming.

Carry me to the jail?

Stay, officer. He shall not go to prison.

Talk not, Signior Gremio. I say he shall go to

prison.

Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched

in this business. I dare swear this is the

right Vincentio.

Swear, if thou dar'st.

Nay, I dare not swear it.

Then thou wert best say that I

am not Lucentio.

Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio.

Away with the dotard, to the jail with him.

Thus strangers may be haled and abused.--

O monstrous villain!

O, we are spoiled, and yonder he is! Deny

him, forswear him, or else we are all undone.

Pardon, sweet father.

Lives my sweet son?

Pardon, dear father.

How hast thou offended?

Where is Lucentio?

Here's Lucentio,

Right son to the right Vincentio,

That have by marriage made thy daughter mine

While counterfeit supposes bleared thine eyne.

Here's packing, with a witness, to deceive us all!

Where is that damned villain, Tranio,

That faced and braved me in this matter so?

Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

Cambio is changed into Lucentio.

Love wrought these miracles. Bianca's love

Made me exchange my state with Tranio,

While he did bear my countenance in the town,

And happily I have arrived at the last

Unto the wished haven of my bliss.

What Tranio did, myself enforced him to.

Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.

I'll slit the villain's nose that would have

sent me to the jail!

But do you hear, sir, have you married my

daughter without asking my goodwill?

Fear not, Baptista, we will content you. Go

to! But I will in to be revenged for this villainy.

And I to sound the depth of this knavery.

Look not pale, Bianca. Thy father will not

frown.

My cake is dough, but I'll in among the rest,

Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.

Husband, let's follow to see the end of

this ado.

First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

What, in the midst of the street?

What, art thou ashamed of me?

No, sir, God forbid, but ashamed to kiss.

Why, then, let's home again. Come,

sirrah, let's away.

Nay, I will give thee a kiss.

Now pray thee, love, stay.

Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate.

Better once than never, for never too late.

At last, though long, our jarring notes agree,

And time it is when raging war is done

To smile at 'scapes and perils overblown.

My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,

While I with selfsame kindness welcome thine.

Brother Petruchio, sister Katherina,

And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,

Feast with the best, and welcome to my house.

My banquet is to close our stomachs up

After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down,

For now we sit to chat as well as eat.

Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!

Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.

Padua affords nothing but what is kind.

For both our sakes I would that word were true.

Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow!

Then never trust me if I be afeard.

You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense:

I mean Hortensio is afeard of you.

He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.

Roundly replied.

Mistress, how mean you that?

Thus I conceive by him.

Conceives by me? How likes Hortensio that?

My widow says, thus she conceives her tale.

Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow.

He that is giddy thinks the world turns round--

I pray you tell me what you meant by that.

Your husband being troubled with a shrew

Measures my husband's sorrow by his woe.

And now you know my meaning.

A very mean meaning.

Right, I mean you.

And I am mean indeed, respecting you.

To her, Kate!

To her, widow!

A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down.

That's my office.

Spoke like an officer! Ha' to thee, lad.

How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?

Believe me, sir, they butt together well.

Head and butt! An hasty-witted body

Would say your head and butt were head and horn.

Ay, mistress bride, hath that awakened you?

Ay, but not frighted me. Therefore I'll sleep again.

Nay, that you shall not. Since you have begun,

Have at you for a bitter jest or two.

Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush,

And then pursue me as you draw your bow.--

You are welcome all.

She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio,

This bird you aimed at, though you hit her not.--

Therefore a health to all that shot and missed.

O, sir, Lucentio slipped me like his greyhound,

Which runs himself and catches for his master.

A good swift simile, but something currish.

'Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself.

'Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay.

O, O, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.

I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.

Confess, confess! Hath he not hit you here?

He has a little galled me, I confess.

And as the jest did glance away from me,

'Tis ten to one it maimed you two outright.

Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,

I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.

Well, I say no. And therefore, for assurance,

Let's each one send unto his wife,

And he whose wife is most obedient

To come at first when he doth send for her

Shall win the wager which we will propose.

Content, what's the wager?

Twenty crowns.

Twenty crowns?

I'll venture so much of my hawk or hound,

But twenty times so much upon my wife.

A hundred, then.

Content.

A match! 'Tis done.

Who shall begin?

That will I.

Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.

I go.

Son, I'll be your half Bianca comes.

I'll have no halves. I'll bear it all myself.

How now, what news?

Sir, my mistress sends you

word

That she is busy, and she cannot come.

How? She's busy, and she cannot come?

Is that an answer?

Ay, and a kind one, too.

Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.

I hope better.

Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife

To come to me forthwith.

O ho, entreat her!

Nay, then, she must needs come.

I am afraid, sir,

Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

Now, where's my wife?

She says you have some goodly jest in hand.

She will not come. She bids you come to her.

Worse and worse. She will not come!

O vile, intolerable, not to be endured!--

Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress,

Say I command her come to me.

I know her answer.

What?

She will not.

The fouler fortune mine, and there an end.

Now by my holidam, here comes Katherina!

What is your will, sir, that you send for me?

Where is your sister, and Hortensio's wife?

They sit conferring by the parlor fire.

Go fetch them hither. If they deny to come,

Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands.

Away, I say, and bring them hither straight.

Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.

And so it is. I wonder what it bodes.

Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life,

An awful rule, and right supremacy,

And, to be short, what not that's sweet and happy.

Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio!

The wager thou hast won, and I will add

Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns,

Another dowry to another daughter,

For she is changed as she had never been.

Nay, I will win my wager better yet,

And show more sign of her obedience,

Her new-built virtue and obedience.

See where she comes, and brings your froward

wives

As prisoners to her womanly persuasion.--

Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not.

Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot.

Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh

Till I be brought to such a silly pass.

Fie, what a foolish duty call you this?

I would your duty were as foolish too.

The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,

Hath cost me a hundred crowns since suppertime.

The more fool you for laying on my duty.

Katherine, I charge thee tell these headstrong

women

What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.

Come, come, you're mocking. We will have no

telling.

Come on, I say, and first begin with her.

She shall not.

I say she shall.--And first begin with her.

Fie, fie! Unknit that threat'ning unkind brow,

And dart not scornful glances from those eyes

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor.

It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,

Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,

And in no sense is meet or amiable.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,

Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty,

And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty

Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign, one that cares for thee,

And for thy maintenance commits his body

To painful labor both by sea and land,

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe,

And craves no other tribute at thy hands

But love, fair looks, and true obedience--

Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel

And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

I am ashamed that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

But that our soft conditions and our hearts

Should well agree with our external parts?

Come, come, you froward and unable worms!

My mind hath been as big as one of yours,

My heart as great, my reason haply more,

To bandy word for word and frown for frown;

But now I see our lances are but straws,

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,

That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

And place your hands below your husband's foot;

In token of which duty, if he please,

My hand is ready, may it do him ease.

Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha 't.

'Tis a good hearing when children are toward.

But a harsh hearing when women are froward.

Come, Kate, we'll to bed.

We three are married, but you two are sped.

'Twas I won the wager, though you

hit the white,

And being a winner, God give you good night.

Now, go thy ways, thou hast tamed a curst shrow.

'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so.

taming_of_the_shrew

henry_vi_part_2

As by your high imperial Majesty

I had in charge at my depart for France,

As procurator to your Excellence,

To marry Princess Margaret for your Grace,

So, in the famous ancient city Tours,

In presence of the Kings of France and Sicil,

The Dukes of Orleance, Calaber, Britaigne, and

Alanson,

Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend

bishops,

I have performed my task and was espoused;

And humbly now upon my bended knee,

In sight of England and her lordly peers,

Deliver up my title in the Queen

To your most gracious hands, that are the substance

Of that great shadow I did represent:

The happiest gift that ever marquess gave,

The fairest queen that ever king received.

Suffolk, arise.--Welcome, Queen Margaret.

I can express no kinder sign of love

Than this kind kiss.

O Lord, that lends me life,

Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!

For Thou hast given me in this beauteous face

A world of earthly blessings to my soul,

If sympathy of love unite our thoughts.

Great king of England and my gracious lord,

The mutual conference that my mind hath had

By day, by night, waking and in my dreams,

In courtly company or at my beads,

With you, mine alderliefest sovereign,

Makes me the bolder to salute my king

With ruder terms, such as my wit affords

And overjoy of heart doth minister.

Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech,

Her words yclad with wisdom's majesty,

Makes me from wond'ring fall to weeping joys,

Such is the fullness of my heart's content.

Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love.

Long live Queen Margaret, England's happiness!

We thank you all.

My Lord Protector, so it please your Grace,

Here are the articles of contracted peace

Between our sovereign and the French king Charles,

For eighteen months concluded by consent.

Imprimis, it is agreed between the

French king Charles and William de la Pole, Marquess

of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry, King of England,

that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady

Margaret, daughter unto Reignier, King of Naples,

Sicilia, and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of England

ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item,

that the duchy of Anjou and the county of Maine

shall be released and delivered to the King her

father--

Uncle, how now?

Pardon me, gracious lord.

Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart

And dimmed mine eyes, that I can read no further.

Uncle of Winchester, I pray read on.

Item, it is further

agreed between them that the duchies of

Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered to

the King her father, and she sent over of the King of

England's own proper cost and charges, without

having any dowry.

They please us well.--Lord Marquess, kneel down.

We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk

And girt thee with the sword. Cousin

of York,

We here discharge your Grace from being regent

I' th' parts of France till term of eighteen months

Be full expired.--Thanks, Uncle Winchester,

Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset,

Salisbury, and Warwick;

We thank you all for this great favor done

In entertainment to my princely queen.

Come, let us in, and with all speed provide

To see her coronation be performed.

Brave peers of England, pillars of the state,

To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief,

Your grief, the common grief of all the land.

What, did my brother Henry spend his youth,

His valor, coin, and people in the wars?

Did he so often lodge in open field,

In winter's cold and summer's parching heat,

To conquer France, his true inheritance?

And did my brother Bedford toil his wits

To keep by policy what Henry got?

Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,

Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,

Received deep scars in France and Normandy?

Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself,

With all the learned council of the realm,

Studied so long, sat in the Council House,

Early and late, debating to and fro

How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe,

And had his Highness in his infancy

Crowned in Paris in despite of foes?

And shall these labors and these honors die?

Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance,

Your deeds of war, and all our counsel die?

O peers of England, shameful is this league,

Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame,

Blotting your names from books of memory,

Razing the characters of your renown,

Defacing monuments of conquered France,

Undoing all, as all had never been!

Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,

This peroration with such circumstance?

For France, 'tis ours, and we will keep it still.

Ay, uncle, we will keep it if we can,

But now it is impossible we should.

Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,

Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine

Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style

Agrees not with the leanness of his purse.

Now, by the death of Him that died for all,

These counties were the keys of Normandy.

But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?

For grief that they are past recovery;

For, were there hope to conquer them again,

My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no

tears.

Anjou and Maine? Myself did win them both!

Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer.

And are the cities that I got with wounds

Delivered up again with peaceful words?

Mort Dieu!

For Suffolk's duke, may he be suffocate

That dims the honor of this warlike isle!

France should have torn and rent my very heart

Before I would have yielded to this league.

I never read but England's kings have had

Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives;

And our King Henry gives away his own

To match with her that brings no vantages.

A proper jest, and never heard before,

That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth

For costs and charges in transporting her!

She should have stayed in France and starved in

France

Before--

My lord of Gloucester, now you grow too hot.

It was the pleasure of my lord the King.

My lord of Winchester, I know your mind.

'Tis not my speeches that you do mislike,

But 'tis my presence that doth trouble you.

Rancor will out. Proud prelate, in thy face

I see thy fury. If I longer stay,

We shall begin our ancient bickerings.--

Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone,

I prophesied France will be lost ere long.

So, there goes our Protector in a rage.

'Tis known to you he is mine enemy,

Nay, more, an enemy unto you all,

And no great friend, I fear me, to the King.

Consider, lords, he is the next of blood

And heir apparent to the English crown.

Had Henry got an empire by his marriage,

And all the wealthy kingdoms of the West,

There's reason he should be displeased at it.

Look to it, lords. Let not his smoothing words

Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect.

What though the common people favor him,

Calling him Humphrey, the good Duke of

Gloucester,

Clapping their hands and crying with loud voice

Jesu maintain your royal Excellence!

With God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!

I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss,

He will be found a dangerous Protector.

Why should he, then, protect our sovereign,

He being of age to govern of himself?--

Cousin of Somerset, join you with me,

And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,

We'll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat.

This weighty business will not brook delay.

I'll to the Duke of Suffolk presently.

Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey's pride

And greatness of his place be grief to us,

Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal.

His insolence is more intolerable

Than all the princes' in the land besides.

If Gloucester be displaced, he'll be Protector.

Or thou or I, Somerset, will be Protector,

Despite Duke Humphrey or the Cardinal.

Pride went before; Ambition follows him.

While these do labor for their own preferment,

Behooves it us to labor for the realm.

I never saw but Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester,

Did bear him like a noble gentleman.

Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal,

More like a soldier than a man o' th' Church,

As stout and proud as he were lord of all,

Swear like a ruffian and demean himself

Unlike the ruler of a commonweal.--

Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age,

Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy housekeeping

Hath won the greatest favor of the Commons,

Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey.--

And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland,

In bringing them to civil discipline,

Thy late exploits done in the heart of France,

When thou wert regent for our sovereign,

Have made thee feared and honored of the people.

Join we together for the public good

In what we can to bridle and suppress

The pride of Suffolk and the Cardinal,

With Somerset's and Buckingham's ambition;

And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey's deeds

While they do tend the profit of the land.

So God help Warwick, as he loves the land

And common profit of his country!

And so says York--for he hath greatest

cause.

Then let's make haste away and look unto the main.

Unto the main? O father, Maine is lost!

That Maine which by main force Warwick did win

And would have kept so long as breath did last!

Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant Maine,

Which I will win from France or else be slain.

Anjou and Maine are given to the French;

Paris is lost; the state of Normandy

Stands on a tickle point now they are gone.

Suffolk concluded on the articles,

The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleased

To change two dukedoms for a duke's fair daughter.

I cannot blame them all. What is 't to them?

'Tis thine they give away, and not their own.

Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their

pillage,

And purchase friends, and give to courtesans,

Still reveling like lords till all be gone;

Whileas the silly owner of the goods

Weeps over them, and wrings his hapless hands,

And shakes his head, and trembling stands aloof,

While all is shared and all is borne away,

Ready to starve, and dare not touch his own.

So York must sit and fret and bite his tongue

While his own lands are bargained for and sold.

Methinks the realms of England, France, and

Ireland

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood

As did the fatal brand Althaea burnt

Unto the Prince's heart of Calydon.

Anjou and Maine both given unto the French!

Cold news for me, for I had hope of France,

Even as I have of fertile England's soil.

A day will come when York shall claim his own;

And therefore I will take the Nevilles' parts

And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,

And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown,

For that's the golden mark I seek to hit.

Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right,

Nor hold the scepter in his childish fist,

Nor wear the diadem upon his head,

Whose churchlike humors fits not for a crown.

Then, York, be still awhile till time do serve.

Watch thou and wake, when others be asleep,

To pry into the secrets of the state

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love

With his new bride and England's dear-bought

queen,

And Humphrey with the peers be fall'n at jars.

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,

With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed,

And in my standard bear the arms of York,

To grapple with the house of Lancaster;

And force perforce I'll make him yield the crown,

Whose bookish rule hath pulled fair England down.

Why droops my lord like over-ripened corn

Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load?

Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows,

As frowning at the favors of the world?

Why are thine eyes fixed to the sullen earth,

Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight?

What seest thou there? King Henry's diadem,

Enchased with all the honors of the world?

If so, gaze on and grovel on thy face

Until thy head be circled with the same.

Put forth thy hand; reach at the glorious gold.

What, is 't too short? I'll lengthen it with mine;

And, having both together heaved it up,

We'll both together lift our heads to heaven

And never more abase our sight so low

As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground.

O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord,

Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts!

And may that hour when I imagine ill

Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry,

Be my last breathing in this mortal world!

My troublous dreams this night doth make me sad.

What dreamed my lord? Tell me, and I'll requite it

With sweet rehearsal of my morning's dream.

Methought this staff, mine office badge in court,

Was broke in twain--by whom I have forgot,

But, as I think, it was by th' Cardinal--

And on the pieces of the broken wand

Were placed the heads of Edmund, Duke of

Somerset,

And William de la Pole, first Duke of Suffolk.

This was my dream. What it doth bode God knows.

Tut, this was nothing but an argument

That he that breaks a stick of Gloucester's grove

Shall lose his head for his presumption.

But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke:

Methought I sat in seat of majesty,

In the cathedral church of Westminster

And in that chair where kings and queens were

crowned,

Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneeled to me

And on my head did set the diadem.

Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright.

Presumptuous dame, ill-nurtured Eleanor,

Art thou not second woman in the realm

And the Protector's wife, beloved of him?

Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command,

Above the reach or compass of thy thought?

And wilt thou still be hammering treachery

To tumble down thy husband and thyself

From top of honor to disgrace's feet?

Away from me, and let me hear no more!

What, what, my lord? Are you so choleric

With Eleanor for telling but her dream?

Next time I'll keep my dreams unto myself

And not be checked.

Nay, be not angry. I am pleased again.

My Lord Protector, 'tis his Highness' pleasure

You do prepare to ride unto Saint Albans,

Whereas the King and Queen do mean to hawk.

I go.--Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?

Yes, my good lord. I'll follow presently.

Follow I must; I cannot go before

While Gloucester bears this base and humble mind.

Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood,

I would remove these tedious stumbling blocks

And smooth my way upon their headless necks;

And, being a woman, I will not be slack

To play my part in Fortune's pageant.--

Where are you there? Sir John! Nay, fear not, man.

We are alone; here's none but thee and I.

Jesus preserve your royal Majesty!

What sayst thou? Majesty? I am but Grace.

But by the grace of God and Hume's advice,

Your Grace's title shall be multiplied.

What sayst thou, man? Hast thou as yet conferred

With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch,

With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer?

And will they undertake to do me good?

This they have promised: to show your Highness

A spirit raised from depth of underground

That shall make answer to such questions

As by your Grace shall be propounded him.

It is enough. I'll think upon the questions.

When from Saint Albans we do make return,

We'll see these things effected to the full.

Here, Hume, take this reward.

Make merry, man,

With thy confederates in this weighty cause.

Hume must make merry with the Duchess' gold.

Marry, and shall! But, how now, Sir John Hume?

Seal up your lips, and give no words but mum;

The business asketh silent secrecy.

Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch;

Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil.

Yet have I gold flies from another coast--

I dare not say, from the rich cardinal

And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk,

Yet I do find it so. For, to be plain,

They, knowing Dame Eleanor's aspiring humor,

Have hired me to undermine the Duchess

And buzz these conjurations in her brain.

They say a crafty knave does need no broker,

Yet am I Suffolk and the Cardinal's broker.

Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near

To call them both a pair of crafty knaves.

Well, so it stands; and thus I fear at last

Hume's knavery will be the Duchess' wrack,

And her attainture will be Humphrey's fall.

Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all.

My masters, let's stand close. My

Lord Protector will come this way by and by, and

then we may deliver our supplications in the quill.

Marry, the Lord protect him, for

he's a good man! Jesu bless him!

Here he comes, methinks, and the

Queen with him. I'll be the first, sure.

Come back, fool! This is the Duke

of Suffolk, and not my Lord Protector.

How now, fellow? Wouldst anything with

me?

I pray, my lord, pardon me. I took

you for my Lord Protector.

To my

Lord Protector. Are your supplications to his Lordship?

Let me see them.--What is thine?

Mine is, an 't please your Grace,

against John Goodman, my Lord Cardinal's man,

for keeping my house, and lands, and wife and all,

from me.

Thy wife too? That's some wrong indeed.--

What's yours? What's here?

Against the Duke of Suffolk for enclosing

the commons of Melford. How now, sir knave?

Alas, sir, I am but a poor petitioner

of our whole township.

Against my master,

Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York

was rightful heir to the crown.

What sayst thou? Did the Duke of

York say he was rightful heir to the crown?

That my master was? No, forsooth. My master

said that he was and that the King was an

usurper.

Who is there?

Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a

pursuivant presently.--We'll hear more of your

matter before the King.

And as for you that love to be protected

Under the wings of our Protector's grace,

Begin your suits anew, and sue to him.

Away, base cullions.--Suffolk, let them go.

Come, let's be gone.

My lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,

Is this the fashions in the court of England?

Is this the government of Britain's isle

And this the royalty of Albion's king?

What, shall King Henry be a pupil still

Under the surly Gloucester's governance?

Am I a queen in title and in style,

And must be made a subject to a duke?

I tell thee, Pole, when in the city Tours

Thou rann'st atilt in honor of my love

And stol'st away the ladies' hearts of France,

I thought King Henry had resembled thee

In courage, courtship, and proportion.

But all his mind is bent to holiness,

To number Ave Marys on his beads;

His champions are the prophets and apostles,

His weapons holy saws of sacred writ,

His study is his tiltyard, and his loves

Are brazen images of canonized saints.

I would the College of the Cardinals

Would choose him pope and carry him to Rome

And set the triple crown upon his head!

That were a state fit for his holiness.

Madam, be patient. As I was cause

Your Highness came to England, so will I

In England work your Grace's full content.

Besides the haughty Protector, have we Beaufort

The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham,

And grumbling York; and not the least of these

But can do more in England than the King.

And he of these that can do most of all

Cannot do more in England than the Nevilles;

Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.

Not all these lords do vex me half so much

As that proud dame, the Lord Protector's wife.

She sweeps it through the court with troops of

ladies,

More like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife.

Strangers in court do take her for the Queen.

She bears a duke's revenues on her back,

And in her heart she scorns our poverty.

Shall I not live to be avenged on her?

Contemptuous baseborn callet as she is,

She vaunted 'mongst her minions t' other day

The very train of her worst wearing gown

Was better worth than all my father's lands

Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

Madam, myself have limed a bush for her

And placed a choir of such enticing birds

That she will light to listen to the lays

And never mount to trouble you again.

So let her rest. And, madam, list to me,

For I am bold to counsel you in this:

Although we fancy not the Cardinal,

Yet must we join with him and with the lords

Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.

As for the Duke of York, this late complaint

Will make but little for his benefit.

So, one by one, we'll weed them all at last,

And you yourself shall steer the happy helm.

For my part, noble lords, I care not which;

Or Somerset or York, all's one to me.

If York have ill demeaned himself in France,

Then let him be denied the regentship.

If Somerset be unworthy of the place,

Let York be regent; I will yield to him.

Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no,

Dispute not that. York is the worthier.

Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak.

The Cardinal's not my better in the field.

All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.

Warwick may live to be the best of all.

Peace, son.--And show some reason, Buckingham,

Why Somerset should be preferred in this.

Because the King, forsooth, will have it so.

Madam, the King is old enough himself

To give his censure. These are no women's matters.

If he be old enough, what needs your Grace

To be Protector of his Excellence?

Madam, I am Protector of the realm,

And at his pleasure will resign my place.

Resign it, then, and leave thine insolence.

Since thou wert king--as who is king but thou?--

The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack,

The Dauphin hath prevailed beyond the seas,

And all the peers and nobles of the realm

Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty.

The Commons hast thou racked; the clergy's bags

Are lank and lean with thy extortions.

Thy sumptuous buildings and thy wife's attire

Have cost a mass of public treasury.

Thy cruelty in execution

Upon offenders hath exceeded law

And left thee to the mercy of the law.

Thy sale of offices and towns in France,

If they were known, as the suspect is great,

Would make thee quickly hop without thy head.

Give me my fan. What, minion, can

you not?

I cry you mercy, madam. Was it you?

Was 't I? Yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman.

Could I come near your beauty with my nails,

I'd set my ten commandments in your face.

Sweet aunt, be quiet. 'Twas against her will.

Against her will, good king? Look to 't in time.

She'll hamper thee and dandle thee like a baby.

Though in this place most master wear no breeches,

She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unrevenged.

Lord Cardinal, I will follow Eleanor

And listen after Humphrey how he proceeds.

She's tickled now; her fume needs no spurs;

She'll gallop far enough to her destruction.

Now, lords, my choler being overblown

With walking once about the quadrangle,

I come to talk of commonwealth affairs.

As for your spiteful false objections,

Prove them, and I lie open to the law;

But God in mercy so deal with my soul

As I in duty love my king and country!

But, to the matter that we have in hand:

I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man

To be your regent in the realm of France.

Before we make election, give me leave

To show some reason, of no little force,

That York is most unmeet of any man.

I'll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet:

First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride;

Next, if I be appointed for the place,

My lord of Somerset will keep me here

Without discharge, money, or furniture

Till France be won into the Dauphin's hands.

Last time I danced attendance on his will

Till Paris was besieged, famished, and lost.

That can I witness, and a fouler fact

Did never traitor in the land commit.

Peace, headstrong Warwick!

Image of pride, why should I hold my peace?

Because here is a man accused of treason.

Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself!

Doth anyone accuse York for a traitor?

What mean'st thou, Suffolk? Tell me, what are

these?

Please it your Majesty, this is the man

That doth accuse his master of high treason.

His words were these: that Richard, Duke of York,

Was rightful heir unto the English crown,

And that your Majesty was an usurper.

Say, man, were these thy words?

An 't shall please your Majesty, I never said

nor thought any such matter. God is my witness, I

am falsely accused by the villain.

By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak

them to me in the garret one night as we were

scouring my lord of York's armor.

Base dunghill villain and mechanical,

I'll have thy head for this thy traitor's speech!--

I do beseech your royal Majesty,

Let him have all the rigor of the law.

Alas, my lord, hang me if ever I spake the

words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I did

correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow

upon his knees he would be even with me. I have

good witness of this. Therefore I beseech your

Majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a

villain's accusation!

Uncle, what shall we say to this in law?

This doom, my lord, if I may judge:

Let Somerset be regent o'er the French,

Because in York this breeds suspicion;

And let these have a day appointed them

For single combat in convenient place,

For he hath witness of his servant's malice.

This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey's doom.

I humbly thank your royal Majesty.

And I accept the combat willingly.

Alas, my lord, I cannot fight; for God's sake pity

my case! The spite of man prevaileth against me. O

Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to

fight a blow. O Lord, my heart!

Sirrah, or you must fight or else be hanged.

Away with them to prison; and the day of

combat shall be the last of the next month.--

Come, Somerset, we'll see thee sent away.

Come, my masters. The Duchess, I tell you,

expects performance of your promises.

Master Hume, we are therefore provided.

Will her Ladyship behold and hear our

exorcisms?

Ay, what else? Fear you not her courage.

I have heard her reported to be a

woman of an invincible spirit. But it shall be convenient,

Master Hume, that you be by her aloft

while we be busy below; and so, I pray you, go, in

God's name, and leave us.

Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate and grovel on

the earth. John Southwell,

read you; and let us to our work.

Well said, my masters, and welcome all. To

this gear, the sooner the better.

Patience, good lady. Wizards know their times.

Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,

The time of night when Troy was set on fire,

The time when screech owls cry and bandogs howl,

And spirits walk, and ghosts break up their graves--

That time best fits the work we have in hand.

Madam, sit you, and fear not. Whom we raise

We will make fast within a hallowed verge.

Adsum.

Asmath,

By the eternal God, whose name and power

Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask,

For till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence.

Ask what thou wilt. That I had said and done!

First of the King: What shall of him become?

The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose,

But him outlive and die a violent death.

What fates await the Duke of Suffolk?

By water shall he die and take his end.

What shall befall the Duke of Somerset?

Let him shun castles.

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand.

Have done, for more I hardly can endure.

Descend to darkness and the burning lake!

False fiend, avoid!

Lay hands upon these traitors and their trash.

Beldam, I think we watched you at an

inch.

What, madam, are you

there? The King and commonweal

Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains.

My Lord Protector will, I doubt it not,

See you well guerdoned for these good deserts.

Not half so bad as thine to England's king,

Injurious duke, that threatest where's no cause.

True, madam, none at all. What call you this?

Away with them! Let them be clapped up close

And kept asunder.--You, madam, shall with us.--

Stafford, take her to thee.

We'll see your trinkets here all forthcoming.

All away!

Lord Buckingham, methinks you watched her well.

A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!

Now, pray, my lord, let's see the devil's writ.

What have we here?

The duke yet lives that Henry shall depose,

But him outlive and die a violent death.

Why, this is just Aio te, Aeacida,

Romanos vincere posse. Well, to the rest:

Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of

Suffolk?

By water shall he die and take his end.

What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?

Let him shun castles;

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains

Than where castles mounted stand.

Come, come, my lord, these oracles

Are hardly attained and hardly understood.

The King is now in progress towards Saint Albans;

With him the husband of this lovely lady.

Thither goes these news as fast as horse can carry

them--

A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector.

Your Grace shall give me leave, my lord of York,

To be the post, in hope of his reward.

At your pleasure, my good lord.

Who's within there, ho!

Invite my lords of Salisbury and Warwick

To sup with me tomorrow night. Away!

Believe me, lords, for flying at the brook

I saw not better sport these seven years' day.

Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high,

And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out.

But what a point, my lord, your falcon made,

And what a pitch she flew above the rest!

To see how God in all his creatures works!

Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high.

No marvel, an it like your Majesty,

My Lord Protector's hawks do tower so well;

They know their master loves to be aloft

And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch.

My lord, 'tis but a base ignoble mind

That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

I thought as much. He would be above the clouds.

Ay, my Lord Cardinal, how think you by that?

Were it not good your Grace could fly to heaven?

The treasury of everlasting joy.

Thy heaven is on Earth; thine eyes and thoughts

Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart.

Pernicious Protector, dangerous peer,

That smooth'st it so with king and commonweal!

What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown

peremptory?

Tantaene animis caelestibus irae?

Churchmen so hot? Good uncle, hide such malice.

With such holiness, can you do it?

No malice, sir, no more than well becomes

So good a quarrel and so bad a peer.

As who, my lord?

Why, as you, my lord,

An 't like your lordly Lord Protectorship.

Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.

And thy ambition, Gloucester.

I prithee peace,

Good queen, and whet not on these furious peers,

For blessed are the peacemakers on Earth.

Let me be blessed for the peace I make

Against this proud Protector with my sword!

Faith, holy uncle, would 't were come to that!

Marry, when thou

dar'st!

Make up no factious numbers for the matter.

In thine own person answer thy abuse.

Ay, where thou dar'st not peep. An if thou dar'st,

This evening, on the east side of the grove.

How now, my lords?

Believe me, cousin Gloucester,

Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly,

We had had more sport.

Come with thy two-hand sword.

True, uncle. Are you advised?

The east side of the grove.

I am with you.

Why, how now, uncle Gloucester?

Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.

Now, by God's mother, priest,

I'll shave your crown for this,

Or all my fence shall fail.

Medice, teipsum;

Protector, see to 't well; protect yourself.

The winds grow high; so do your stomachs, lords.

How irksome is this music to my heart!

When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?

I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

What means this noise?--

Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim?

A miracle, a miracle!

Come to the King, and tell him what miracle.

Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Alban's shrine

Within this half hour hath received his sight,

A man that ne'er saw in his life before.

Now, God be praised, that to believing souls

Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.

Here comes the townsmen on procession

To present your Highness with the man.

Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied.

Stand by, my masters.--Bring him near the King.

His Highness' pleasure is to talk with him.

Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,

That we for thee may glorify the Lord.

What, hast thou been long blind and now restored?

Born blind, an 't please your Grace.

Ay, indeed, was he.

What woman is this?

His wife, an 't like your Worship.

Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst

have better told.

Where wert thou born?

At Berwick in the North, an 't like your Grace.

Poor soul, God's goodness hath been great to thee.

Let never day nor night unhallowed pass,

But still remember what the Lord hath done.

Tell me, good fellow, cam'st thou here by chance,

Or of devotion to this holy shrine?

God knows, of pure devotion, being called

A hundred times and oftener in my sleep

By good Saint Alban, who said Simon, come,

Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.

Most true, forsooth, and many time and oft

Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

What, art thou lame?

Ay, God Almighty help me!

How cam'st thou so?

A fall off of a tree.

A plum tree, master.

How long hast thou been blind?

O, born so, master.

What, and wouldst climb a tree?

But that in all my life, when I was a youth.

Too true, and bought his climbing very dear.

Mass, thou lov'dst plums well, that

wouldst venture so.

Alas, good master, my wife desired some

damsons, and made me climb, with danger of my

life.

A subtle knave, but yet it shall not serve.--

Let me see thine eyes. Wink now. Now open them.

In my opinion, yet thou seest not well.

Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and

Saint Alban.

Sayst thou me so? What color is this cloak of?

Red, master, red as blood.

Why, that's well said. What color is my gown of?

Black, forsooth, coal-black as jet.

Why, then, thou know'st what color jet is of.

And yet, I think, jet did he never see.

But cloaks and gowns, before this day, a many.

Never, before this day, in all his life.

Tell me, sirrah, what's my name?

Alas, master, I know not.

What's his name?

I know not.

Nor his?

No, indeed, master.

What's thine own name?

Sander Simpcox, an if it please you, master.

Then, Sander, sit there, the lying'st knave

in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind,

thou mightst as well have known all our names as

thus to name the several colors we do wear. Sight

may distinguish of colors; but suddenly to nominate

them all, it is impossible.--My lords, Saint

Alban here hath done a miracle; and would you

not think his cunning to be great that could

restore this cripple to his legs again?

O master, that you could!

My masters of Saint Albans, have you not

beadles in your town and things called whips?

Yes, my lord, if it please your Grace.

Then send for one presently.

Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

Now fetch me a stool hither by and by.

Now, sirrah, if you mean to

save yourself from whipping, leap me over this

stool, and run away.

Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone.

You go about to torture me in vain.

Well, sir, we must have you find your

legs.--Sirrah beadle, whip him till he leap over

that same stool.

I will, my lord.--Come on, sirrah, off with

your doublet quickly.

Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to

stand.

O God, seest Thou this, and bearest so long?

It made me laugh to see the villain run.

Follow the knave, and take this drab away.

Alas, sir, we did it for pure need.

Let them be whipped through every market town

Till they come to Berwick, from whence they came.

Duke Humphrey has done a miracle today.

True, made the lame to leap and fly away.

But you have done more miracles than I.

You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly.

What tidings with our cousin Buckingham?

Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold:

A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent,

Under the countenance and confederacy

Of Lady Eleanor, the Protector's wife,

The ringleader and head of all this rout,

Have practiced dangerously against your state,

Dealing with witches and with conjurers,

Whom we have apprehended in the fact,

Raising up wicked spirits from under ground,

Demanding of King Henry's life and death

And other of your Highness' Privy Council,

As more at large your Grace shall understand.

And so, my Lord Protector, by this means

Your lady is forthcoming yet at London.

This news, I think, hath turned

your weapon's edge;

'Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.

Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart.

Sorrow and grief have vanquished all my powers,

And, vanquished as I am, I yield to thee,

Or to the meanest groom.

O God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones,

Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby!

Gloucester, see here the tainture of thy nest,

And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal

How I have loved my king and commonweal;

And, for my wife, I know not how it stands.

Sorry I am to hear what I have heard.

Noble she is; but if she have forgot

Honor and virtue, and conversed with such

As, like to pitch, defile nobility,

I banish her my bed and company

And give her as a prey to law and shame

That hath dishonored Gloucester's honest name.

Well, for this night we will repose us here.

Tomorrow toward London back again,

To look into this business thoroughly,

And call these foul offenders to their answers,

And poise the cause in Justice' equal scales,

Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause

prevails.

Now, my good lords of Salisbury and Warwick,

Our simple supper ended, give me leave,

In this close walk, to satisfy myself

In craving your opinion of my title,

Which is infallible, to England's crown.

My lord, I long to hear it at full.

Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good,

The Nevilles are thy subjects to command.

Then thus:

Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons:

The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales;

The second, William of Hatfield; and the third,

Lionel, Duke of Clarence; next to whom

Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster;

The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York;

The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of

Gloucester;

William of Windsor was the seventh and last.

Edward the Black Prince died before his father

And left behind him Richard, his only son,

Who, after Edward the Third's death, reigned as

king

Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,

The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,

Crowned by the name of Henry the Fourth,

Seized on the realm, deposed the rightful king,

Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she

came,

And him to Pomfret; where, as all you know,

Harmless Richard was murdered traitorously.

Father, the Duke hath told the truth.

Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown.

Which now they hold by force and not by right;

For Richard, the first son's heir, being dead,

The issue of the next son should have reigned.

But William of Hatfield died without an heir.

The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line

I claim the crown, had issue, Philippa, a daughter,

Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March.

Edmund had issue, Roger, Earl of March;

Roger had issue: Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor.

This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,

As I have read, laid claim unto the crown

And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king,

Who kept him in captivity till he died.

But to the rest.

His eldest sister, Anne,

My mother, being heir unto the crown,

Married Richard, Earl of Cambridge, who was son

To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son.

By her I claim the kingdom. She was heir

To Roger, Earl of March, who was the son

Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippa,

Sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence.

So, if the issue of the elder son

Succeed before the younger, I am king.

What plain proceedings is more plain than this?

Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,

The fourth son; York claims it from the third.

Till Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign.

It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee

And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.

Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together,

And in this private plot be we the first

That shall salute our rightful sovereign

With honor of his birthright to the crown.

Long live our sovereign Richard, England's king!

We thank you, lords. But I am not your

king

Till I be crowned, and that my sword be stained

With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster;

And that's not suddenly to be performed,

But with advice and silent secrecy.

Do you as I do in these dangerous days:

Wink at the Duke of Suffolk's insolence,

At Beaufort's pride, at Somerset's ambition,

At Buckingham, and all the crew of them,

Till they have snared the shepherd of the flock,

That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey.

'Tis that they seek; and they, in seeking that,

Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy.

My lord, break we off. We know your mind at full.

My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick

Shall one day make the Duke of York a king.

And, Neville, this I do assure myself:

Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick

The greatest man in England but the King.

Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Gloucester's

wife.

In sight of God and us, your guilt is great.

Receive the sentence of the law for sins

Such as by God's book are adjudged to death.

You four, from hence to prison back again;

From thence unto the place of execution:

The witch in Smithfield shall be burnt to ashes,

And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.

You, madam, for you are more nobly

born,

Despoiled of your honor in your life,

Shall, after three days' open penance done,

Live in your country here in banishment

With Sir John Stanley in the Isle of Man.

Welcome is banishment. Welcome were my death.

Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee.

I cannot justify whom the law condemns.

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

Ah, Humphrey, this dishonor in thine age

Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground.--

I beseech your Majesty give me leave to go;

Sorrow would solace, and mine age would ease.

Stay, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. Ere thou go,

Give up thy staff. Henry will to himself

Protector be; and God shall be my hope,

My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.

And go in peace, Humphrey, no less beloved

Than when thou wert Protector to thy king.

I see no reason why a king of years

Should be to be protected like a child.

God and King Henry govern England's realm!--

Give up your staff, sir, and the King his realm.

My staff?--Here, noble Henry, is my staff.

As willingly do I the same resign

As e'er thy father Henry made it mine;

And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it

As others would ambitiously receive it.

Farewell, good king. When I am dead and gone,

May honorable peace attend thy throne.

Why, now is Henry king and Margaret queen,

And Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, scarce himself,

That bears so shrewd a maim. Two pulls at once:

His lady banished and a limb lopped off.

This staff of honor raught, there let it stand

Where it best fits to be, in Henry's hand.

Thus droops this lofty pine and hangs his sprays;

Thus Eleanor's pride dies in her youngest days.

Lords, let him go.--Please it your Majesty,

This is the day appointed for the combat,

And ready are the appellant and defendant--

The armorer and his man--to enter the lists,

So please your Highness to behold the fight.

Ay, good my lord, for purposely therefor

Left I the court to see this quarrel tried.

I' God's name, see the lists and all things fit.

Here let them end it, and God defend the right!

I never saw a fellow worse bestead

Or more afraid to fight than is the appellant,

The servant of this armorer, my lords.

Here, neighbor Horner, I drink to you

in a cup of sack; and fear not, neighbor, you shall

do well enough.

And here, neighbor, here's a cup of

charneco.

And here's a pot of good double beer,

neighbor. Drink, and fear not your man.

Let it come, i' faith, and I'll pledge you all.

And a fig for Peter!

Here, Peter, I drink to thee, and be not

afraid.

Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy

master. Fight for credit of the prentices.

I thank you all. Drink, and pray for me, I pray

you, for I think I have taken my last draft in this

world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my

apron.--And, Will, thou shalt have my hammer.--

And here, Tom, take all the money that I have.

O Lord, bless me, I

pray God, for I am never able to deal with my

master. He hath learnt so much fence already.

Come, leave your drinking, and fall to

blows. Sirrah, what's thy name?

Peter, forsooth.

Peter? What more?

Thump.

Thump? Then see thou thump thy master

well.

Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon

my man's instigation, to prove him a knave and

myself an honest man; and touching the Duke of

York, I will take my death I never meant him any

ill, nor the King, nor the Queen.--And therefore,

Peter, have at thee with a downright blow!

Dispatch. This knave's tongue begins to double.

Sound, trumpets. Alarum to the combatants!

Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason.

Take away his weapon.--Fellow, thank God and

the good wine in thy master's way.

O God, have I overcome mine enemies in this

presence? O Peter, thou hast prevailed in right!

Go, take hence that traitor from our sight;

For by his death we do perceive his guilt.

And God in justice hath revealed to us

The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,

Which he had thought to have murdered

wrongfully.--

Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward.

Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud,

And after summer evermore succeeds

Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold;

So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.

Sirs, what's o'clock?

Ten, my lord.

Ten is the hour that was appointed me

To watch the coming of my punished duchess.

Uneath may she endure the flinty streets,

To tread them with her tender-feeling feet.

Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook

The abject people gazing on thy face

With envious looks laughing at thy shame,

That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels

When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.

But, soft! I think she comes, and I'll prepare

My tearstained eyes to see her miseries.

So please your Grace, we'll take her from the Sheriff.

No, stir not for your lives. Let her pass by.

Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?

Now thou dost penance too. Look how they gaze!

See how the giddy multitude do point,

And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee.

Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful looks,

And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame,

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine.

Be patient, gentle Nell. Forget this grief.

Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself!

For whilst I think I am thy married wife

And thou a prince, Protector of this land,

Methinks I should not thus be led along,

Mailed up in shame, with papers on my back,

And followed with a rabble that rejoice

To see my tears and hear my deep-fet groans.

The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet,

And when I start, the envious people laugh

And bid me be advised how I tread.

Ah, Humphrey, can I bear this shameful yoke?

Trowest thou that e'er I'll look upon the world

Or count them happy that enjoys the sun?

No, dark shall be my light, and night my day.

To think upon my pomp shall be my hell.

Sometimes I'll say I am Duke Humphrey's wife

And he a prince and ruler of the land;

Yet so he ruled and such a prince he was

As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess,

Was made a wonder and a pointing-stock

To every idle rascal follower.

But be thou mild, and blush not at my shame,

Nor stir at nothing till the ax of death

Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will.

For Suffolk, he that can do all in all

With her that hateth thee and hates us all,

And York and impious Beaufort, that false priest,

Have all limed bushes to betray thy wings;

And fly thou how thou canst, they'll tangle thee.

But fear not thou until thy foot be snared,

Nor never seek prevention of thy foes.

Ah, Nell, forbear. Thou aimest all awry.

I must offend before I be attainted;

And had I twenty times so many foes,

And each of them had twenty times their power,

All these could not procure me any scathe

So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless.

Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach?

Why, yet thy scandal were not wiped away,

But I in danger for the breach of law.

Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell.

I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience;

These few days' wonder will be quickly worn.

I summon your Grace to his Majesty's Parliament

Holden at Bury the first of this next month.

And my consent ne'er asked herein before?

This is close dealing. Well, I will be there.

My Nell, I take my leave.--And, master sheriff,

Let not her penance exceed the King's commission.

An 't please your Grace, here my commission stays,

And Sir John Stanley is appointed now

To take her with him to the Isle of Man.

Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here?

So am I given in charge, may 't please your Grace.

Entreat her not the worse in that I pray

You use her well. The world may laugh again,

And I may live to do you kindness, if

You do it her. And so, Sir John, farewell.

What, gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell?

Witness my tears. I cannot stay to speak.

Art thou gone too? All comfort go with thee,

For none abides with me. My joy is death--

Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard,

Because I wished this world's eternity.--

Stanley, I prithee, go, and take me hence.

I care not whither, for I beg no favor;

Only convey me where thou art commanded.

Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man,

There to be used according to your state.

That's bad enough, for I am but reproach.

And shall I, then, be used reproachfully?

Like to a duchess and Duke Humphrey's lady;

According to that state you shall be used.

Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare,

Although thou hast been conduct of my shame.

It is my office; and, madam, pardon me.

Ay, ay, farewell. Thy office is discharged.

Come, Stanley, shall we go?

Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet,

And go we to attire you for our journey.

My shame will not be shifted with my sheet.

No, it will hang upon my richest robes

And show itself, attire me how I can.

Go, lead the way. I long to see my prison.

I muse my lord of Gloucester is not come.

'Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,

Whate'er occasion keeps him from us now.

Can you not see, or will you not observe,

The strangeness of his altered countenance?

With what a majesty he bears himself,

How insolent of late he is become,

How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself?

We know the time since he was mild and affable;

And if we did but glance a far-off look,

Immediately he was upon his knee,

That all the court admired him for submission.

But meet him now, and, be it in the morn

When everyone will give the time of day,

He knits his brow and shows an angry eye

And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee,

Disdaining duty that to us belongs.

Small curs are not regarded when they grin,

But great men tremble when the lion roars--

And Humphrey is no little man in England.

First, note that he is near you in descent,

And, should you fall, he is the next will mount.

Meseemeth then it is no policy,

Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears

And his advantage following your decease,

That he should come about your royal person

Or be admitted to your Highness' Council.

By flattery hath he won the Commons' hearts;

And when he please to make commotion,

'Tis to be feared they all will follow him.

Now 'tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted;

Suffer them now, and they'll o'ergrow the garden

And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.

The reverent care I bear unto my lord

Made me collect these dangers in the Duke.

If it be fond, call it a woman's fear,

Which fear, if better reasons can supplant,

I will subscribe and say I wronged the Duke.

My lords of Suffolk, Buckingham, and York,

Reprove my allegation if you can,

Or else conclude my words effectual.

Well hath your Highness seen into this duke,

And, had I first been put to speak my mind,

I think I should have told your Grace's tale.

The Duchess by his subornation,

Upon my life, began her devilish practices;

Or if he were not privy to those faults,

Yet, by reputing of his high descent--

As next the King he was successive heir,

And such high vaunts of his nobility--

Did instigate the bedlam brainsick duchess

By wicked means to frame our sovereign's fall.

Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,

And in his simple show he harbors treason.

The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb.

No, no, my sovereign, Gloucester is a man

Unsounded yet and full of deep deceit.

Did he not, contrary to form of law,

Devise strange deaths for small offenses done?

And did he not, in his protectorship,

Levy great sums of money through the realm

For soldiers' pay in France, and never sent it,

By means whereof the towns each day revolted?

Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown,

Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke

Humphrey.

My lords, at once: the care you have of us

To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot

Is worthy praise; but, shall I speak my conscience,

Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent

From meaning treason to our royal person

As is the sucking lamb or harmless dove.

The Duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given

To dream on evil or to work my downfall.

Ah, what's more dangerous than this fond affiance?

Seems he a dove? His feathers are but borrowed,

For he's disposed as the hateful raven.

Is he a lamb? His skin is surely lent him,

For he's inclined as is the ravenous wolves.

Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit?

Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all

Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

All health unto my gracious sovereign!

Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France?

That all your interest in those territories

Is utterly bereft you. All is lost.

Cold news, Lord Somerset; but God's will be done.

Cold news for me, for I had hope of France

As firmly as I hope for fertile England.

Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud,

And caterpillars eat my leaves away.

But I will remedy this gear ere long,

Or sell my title for a glorious grave.

All happiness unto my lord the King!

Pardon, my liege, that I have stayed so long.

Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come too soon,

Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art.

I do arrest thee of high treason here.

Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush

Nor change my countenance for this arrest.

A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.

The purest spring is not so free from mud

As I am clear from treason to my sovereign.

Who can accuse me? Wherein am I guilty?

'Tis thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France

And, being Protector, stayed the soldiers' pay,

By means whereof his Highness hath lost France.

Is it but thought so? What are they that think it?

I never robbed the soldiers of their pay

Nor ever had one penny bribe from France.

So help me God as I have watched the night--

Ay, night by night--in studying good for England!

That doit that e'er I wrested from the King,

Or any groat I hoarded to my use,

Be brought against me at my trial day!

No, many a pound of mine own proper store,

Because I would not tax the needy Commons,

Have I dispursed to the garrisons

And never asked for restitution.

It serves you well, my lord, to say so much.

I say no more than truth, so help me God.

In your protectorship, you did devise

Strange tortures for offenders, never heard of,

That England was defamed by tyranny.

Why, 'tis well known that whiles I was Protector,

Pity was all the fault that was in me;

For I should melt at an offender's tears,

And lowly words were ransom for their fault.

Unless it were a bloody murderer

Or foul felonious thief that fleeced poor passengers,

I never gave them condign punishment.

Murder indeed, that bloody sin, I tortured

Above the felon or what trespass else.

My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answered;

But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge

Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.

I do arrest you in his Highness' name,

And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal

To keep until your further time of trial.

My lord of Gloucester, 'tis my special hope

That you will clear yourself from all suspense.

My conscience tells me you are innocent.

Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous.

Virtue is choked with foul ambition,

And charity chased hence by rancor's hand;

Foul subornation is predominant,

And equity exiled your Highness' land.

I know their complot is to have my life;

And if my death might make this island happy

And prove the period of their tyranny,

I would expend it with all willingness.

But mine is made the prologue to their play;

For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril,

Will not conclude their plotted tragedy.

Beaufort's red sparkling eyes blab his heart's malice,

And Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy hate;

Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue

The envious load that lies upon his heart;

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,

Whose overweening arm I have plucked back,

By false accuse doth level at my life.--

And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest,

Causeless have laid disgraces on my head

And with your best endeavor have stirred up

My liefest liege to be mine enemy.

Ay, all of you have laid your heads together--

Myself had notice of your conventicles--

And all to make away my guiltless life.

I shall not want false witness to condemn me

Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt.

The ancient proverb will be well effected:

A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.

My liege, his railing is intolerable.

If those that care to keep your royal person

From treason's secret knife and traitor's rage

Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at,

And the offender granted scope of speech,

'Twill make them cool in zeal unto your Grace.

Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here

With ignominious words, though clerkly couched,

As if she had suborned some to swear

False allegations to o'erthrow his state?

But I can give the loser leave to chide.

Far truer spoke than meant. I lose, indeed;

Beshrew the winners, for they played me false!

And well such losers may have leave to speak.

He'll wrest the sense and hold us here all day.

Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner.

Sirs, take away the Duke, and guard him sure.

Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch

Before his legs be firm to bear his body.--

Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side,

And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first.

Ah, that my fear were false; ah, that it were!

For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best

Do, or undo, as if ourself were here.

What, will your Highness leave the Parliament?

Ay, Margaret. My heart is drowned with grief,

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes,

My body round engirt with misery;

For what's more miserable than discontent?

Ah, uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see

The map of honor, truth, and loyalty;

And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come

That e'er I proved thee false or feared thy faith.

What louring star now envies thy estate

That these great lords and Margaret our queen

Do seek subversion of thy harmless life?

Thou never didst them wrong nor no man wrong.

And as the butcher takes away the calf

And binds the wretch and beats it when it strains,

Bearing it to the bloody slaughterhouse,

Even so remorseless have they borne him hence;

And as the dam runs lowing up and down,

Looking the way her harmless young one went,

And can do naught but wail her darling's loss,

Even so myself bewails good Gloucester's case

With sad unhelpful tears, and with dimmed eyes

Look after him and cannot do him good,

So mighty are his vowed enemies.

His fortunes I will weep and, 'twixt each groan,

Say Who's a traitor, Gloucester he is none.

Free lords, cold snow melts with the sun's hot

beams.

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs,

Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester's show

Beguiles him, as the mournful crocodile

With sorrow snares relenting passengers,

Or as the snake, rolled in a flow'ring bank,

With shining checkered slough, doth sting a child

That for the beauty thinks it excellent.

Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I--

And yet herein I judge mine own wit good--

This Gloucester should be quickly rid the world,

To rid us from the fear we have of him.

That he should die is worthy policy,

But yet we want a color for his death.

'Tis meet he be condemned by course of law.

But, in my mind, that were no policy.

The King will labor still to save his life,

The Commons haply rise to save his life,

And yet we have but trivial argument,

More than mistrust, that shows him worthy death.

So that, by this, you would not have him die.

Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I!

'Tis York that hath more reason for his death.

But, my Lord Cardinal, and you, my lord of Suffolk,

Say as you think, and speak it from your souls:

Were 't not all one an empty eagle were set

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite

As place Duke Humphrey for the King's Protector?

So the poor chicken should be sure of death.

Madam, 'tis true; and were 't not madness then

To make the fox surveyor of the fold--

Who, being accused a crafty murderer,

His guilt should be but idly posted over

Because his purpose is not executed?

No, let him die in that he is a fox,

By nature proved an enemy to the flock,

Before his chaps be stained with crimson blood,

As Humphrey, proved by reasons, to my liege.

And do not stand on quillets how to slay him--

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety,

Sleeping or waking. 'Tis no matter how,

So he be dead; for that is good deceit

Which mates him first that first intends deceit.

Thrice noble Suffolk, 'tis resolutely spoke.

Not resolute, except so much were done,

For things are often spoke and seldom meant;

But that my heart accordeth with my tongue,

Seeing the deed is meritorious,

And to preserve my sovereign from his foe,

Say but the word and I will be his priest.

But I would have him dead, my lord of Suffolk,

Ere you can take due orders for a priest.

Say you consent and censure well the deed,

And I'll provide his executioner.

I tender so the safety of my liege.

Here is my hand. The deed is worthy doing.

And so say I.

And I. And now we three have spoke it,

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain

To signify that rebels there are up

And put the Englishmen unto the sword.

Send succors, lords, and stop the rage betime,

Before the wound do grow uncurable;

For, being green, there is great hope of help.

A breach that craves a quick expedient stop!

What counsel give you in this weighty cause?

That Somerset be sent as regent thither.

'Tis meet that lucky ruler be employed--

Witness the fortune he hath had in France.

If York, with all his far-fet policy,

Had been the regent there instead of me,

He never would have stayed in France so long.

No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done.

I rather would have lost my life betimes

Than bring a burden of dishonor home

By staying there so long till all were lost.

Show me one scar charactered on thy skin.

Men's flesh preserved so whole do seldom win.

Nay, then, this spark will prove a raging fire

If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with.--

No more, good York.--Sweet Somerset, be still.--

Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,

Might happily have proved far worse than his.

What, worse than naught? Nay, then, a shame take

all!

And, in the number, thee that wishest shame!

My lord of York, try what your fortune is.

Th' uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms

And temper clay with blood of Englishmen.

To Ireland will you lead a band of men,

Collected choicely, from each county some,

And try your hap against the Irishmen?

I will, my lord, so please his Majesty.

Why, our authority is his consent,

And what we do establish he confirms.

Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand.

I am content. Provide me soldiers, lords,

Whiles I take order for mine own affairs.

A charge, Lord York, that I will see performed.

But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.

No more of him, for I will deal with him,

That henceforth he shall trouble us no more.

And so break off; the day is almost spent.

Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event.

My lord of Suffolk, within fourteen days

At Bristow I expect my soldiers,

For there I'll ship them all for Ireland.

I'll see it truly done, my lord of York.

Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful thoughts

And change misdoubt to resolution.

Be that thou hop'st to be, or what thou art

Resign to death; it is not worth th' enjoying.

Let pale-faced fear keep with the mean-born man

And find no harbor in a royal heart.

Faster than springtime showers comes thought on

thought,

And not a thought but thinks on dignity.

My brain, more busy than the laboring spider,

Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

Well, nobles, well, 'tis politicly done

To send me packing with an host of men.

I fear me you but warm the starved snake,

Who, cherished in your breasts, will sting your

hearts.

'Twas men I lacked, and you will give them me;

I take it kindly. Yet be well assured

You put sharp weapons in a madman's hands.

Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band,

I will stir up in England some black storm

Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;

And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage

Until the golden circuit on my head,

Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams,

Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.

And for a minister of my intent,

I have seduced a headstrong Kentishman,

John Cade of Ashford,

To make commotion, as full well he can,

Under the title of John Mortimer.

In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade

Oppose himself against a troop of kerns,

And fought so long till that his thighs with darts

Were almost like a sharp-quilled porpentine;

And in the end being rescued, I have seen

Him caper upright like a wild Morisco,

Shaking the bloody darts as he his bells.

Full often, like a shag-haired crafty kern,

Hath he conversed with the enemy,

And undiscovered come to me again

And given me notice of their villainies.

This devil here shall be my substitute;

For that John Mortimer, which now is dead,

In face, in gait, in speech he doth resemble.

By this, I shall perceive the Commons' mind,

How they affect the house and claim of York.

Say he be taken, racked, and tortured,

I know no pain they can inflict upon him

Will make him say I moved him to those arms.

Say that he thrive, as 'tis great like he will,

Why then from Ireland come I with my strength

And reap the harvest which that rascal sowed.

For, Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,

And Henry put apart, the next for me.

Run to my lord of Suffolk. Let him know

We have dispatched the Duke as he commanded.

O, that it were to do! What have we done?

Didst ever hear a man so penitent?

Here comes my lord.

Now, sirs, have you dispatched this thing?

Ay, my good lord, he's dead.

Why, that's well said. Go, get you to my house;

I will reward you for this venturous deed.

The King and all the peers are here at hand.

Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well,

According as I gave directions?

'Tis, my good lord.

Away, be gone.

Go, call our uncle to our presence straight.

Say we intend to try his Grace today

If he be guilty, as 'tis published.

I'll call him presently, my noble lord.

Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all,

Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester

Than from true evidence of good esteem

He be approved in practice culpable.

God forbid any malice should prevail

That faultless may condemn a nobleman!

Pray God he may acquit him of suspicion!

I thank thee, Meg. These words content me much.

How now? Why look'st thou pale? Why tremblest

thou?

Where is our uncle? What's the matter, Suffolk?

Dead in his bed, my lord. Gloucester is dead.

Marry, God forfend!

God's secret judgment. I did dream tonight

The Duke was dumb and could not speak a word.

How fares my lord? Help, lords, the King is dead!

Rear up his body. Wring him by the nose.

Run, go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes!

He doth revive again. Madam, be patient.

O heavenly God!

How fares my gracious lord?

Comfort, my sovereign! Gracious Henry, comfort!

What, doth my lord of Suffolk comfort me?

Came he right now to sing a raven's note,

Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,

And thinks he that the chirping of a wren,

By crying comfort from a hollow breast,

Can chase away the first-conceived sound?

Hide not thy poison with such sugared words.

Lay not thy hands on me. Forbear, I say!

Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting.

Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!

Upon thy eyeballs, murderous Tyranny

Sits in grim majesty to fright the world.

Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding.

Yet do not go away. Come, basilisk,

And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;

For in the shade of death I shall find joy,

In life but double death, now Gloucester's dead.

Why do you rate my lord of Suffolk thus?

Although the Duke was enemy to him,

Yet he most Christian-like laments his death.

And for myself, foe as he was to me,

Might liquid tears or heart-offending groans

Or blood-consuming sighs recall his life,

I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans,

Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs,

And all to have the noble duke alive.

What know I how the world may deem of me?

For it is known we were but hollow friends.

It may be judged I made the Duke away;

So shall my name with slander's tongue be wounded

And princes' courts be filled with my reproach.

This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy,

To be a queen and crowned with infamy!

Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man!

Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.

What, dost thou turn away and hide thy face?

I am no loathsome leper. Look on me.

What, art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf?

Be poisonous too, and kill thy forlorn queen.

Is all thy comfort shut in Gloucester's tomb?

Why, then, Dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy.

Erect his statue and worship it,

And make my image but an alehouse sign.

Was I for this nigh-wracked upon the sea

And twice by awkward wind from England's bank

Drove back again unto my native clime?

What boded this, but well forewarning wind

Did seem to say Seek not a scorpion's nest,

Nor set no footing on this unkind shore?

What did I then but cursed the gentle gusts

And he that loosed them forth their brazen caves

And bid them blow towards England's blessed shore

Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock?

Yet Aeolus would not be a murderer,

But left that hateful office unto thee.

The pretty-vaulting sea refused to drown me,

Knowing that thou wouldst have me drowned on

shore

With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness.

The splitting rocks cow'red in the sinking sands

And would not dash me with their ragged sides

Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,

Might in thy palace perish Margaret.

As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,

When from thy shore the tempest beat us back,

I stood upon the hatches in the storm,

And when the dusky sky began to rob

My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view,

I took a costly jewel from my neck--

A heart it was, bound in with diamonds--

And threw it towards thy land. The sea received it,

And so I wished thy body might my heart.

And even with this I lost fair England's view,

And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart,

And called them blind and dusky spectacles

For losing ken of Albion's wished coast.

How often have I tempted Suffolk's tongue,

The agent of thy foul inconstancy,

To sit and watch me, as Ascanius did

When he to madding Dido would unfold

His father's acts commenced in burning Troy!

Am I not witched like her, or thou not false like

him?

Ay me, I can no more. Die, Margaret,

For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

It is reported, mighty sovereign,

That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murdered

By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means.

The Commons, like an angry hive of bees

That want their leader, scatter up and down

And care not who they sting in his revenge.

Myself have calmed their spleenful mutiny,

Until they hear the order of his death.

That he is dead, good Warwick, 'tis too true;

But how he died God knows, not Henry.

Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse,

And comment then upon his sudden death.

That shall I do, my liege.--Stay, Salisbury,

With the rude multitude till I return.

O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts,

My thoughts that labor to persuade my soul

Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life.

If my suspect be false, forgive me, God,

For judgment only doth belong to Thee.

Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips

With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain

Upon his face an ocean of salt tears,

To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk

And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling;

But all in vain are these mean obsequies.

And to survey his dead and earthy image,

What were it but to make my sorrow greater?

Come hither, gracious sovereign. View this body.

That is to see how deep my grave is made,

For with his soul fled all my worldly solace;

For seeing him, I see my life in death.

As surely as my soul intends to live

With that dread King that took our state upon Him

To free us from His Father's wrathful curse,

I do believe that violent hands were laid

Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue!

What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?

See how the blood is settled in his face.

Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,

Of ashy semblance, meager, pale, and bloodless,

Being all descended to the laboring heart,

Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,

Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy,

Which with the heart there cools and ne'er

returneth

To blush and beautify the cheek again.

But see, his face is black and full of blood;

His eyeballs further out than when he lived,

Staring full ghastly, like a strangled man;

His hair upreared, his nostrils stretched with

struggling;

His hands abroad displayed, as one that grasped

And tugged for life and was by strength subdued.

Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is sticking;

His well-proportioned beard made rough and

rugged,

Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodged.

It cannot be but he was murdered here.

The least of all these signs were probable.

Why, Warwick, who should do the Duke to death?

Myself and Beaufort had him in protection,

And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.

But both of you were vowed Duke Humphrey's foes,

And you, forsooth, had the good duke

to keep.

'Tis like you would not feast him like a friend,

And 'tis well seen he found an enemy.

Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen

As guilty of Duke Humphrey's timeless death.

Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh,

And sees fast by a butcher with an ax,

But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter?

Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest

But may imagine how the bird was dead,

Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?

Even so suspicious is this tragedy.

Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where's your knife?

Is Beaufort termed a kite? Where are his talons?

I wear no knife to slaughter sleeping men,

But here's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,

That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart

That slanders me with murder's crimson badge.--

Say, if thou dar'st, proud lord of Warwickshire,

That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey's death.

What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him?

He dares not calm his contumelious spirit

Nor cease to be an arrogant controller,

Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.

Madam, be still--with reverence may I say--

For every word you speak in his behalf

Is slander to your royal dignity.

Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanor!

If ever lady wronged her lord so much,

Thy mother took into her blameful bed

Some stern untutored churl, and noble stock

Was graft with crab-tree slip, whose fruit thou art

And never of the Nevilles' noble race.

But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee

And I should rob the deathsman of his fee,

Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,

And that my sovereign's presence makes me mild,

I would, false murd'rous coward, on thy knee

Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech

And say it was thy mother that thou meant'st,

That thou thyself wast born in bastardy;

And after all this fearful homage done,

Give thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell,

Pernicious bloodsucker of sleeping men!

Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood,

If from this presence thou dar'st go with me.

Away even now, or I will drag thee hence!

Unworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee

And do some service to Duke Humphrey's ghost.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?

Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just,

And he but naked, though locked up in steel,

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

What noise is this?

Why, how now, lords? Your wrathful weapons

drawn

Here in our presence? Dare you be so bold?

Why, what tumultuous clamor have we here?

The trait'rous Warwick, with the men of Bury,

Set all upon me, mighty sovereign.

Sirs, stand apart. The King shall know your mind.--

Dread lord, the Commons send you word by me,

Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to death

Or banished fair England's territories,

They will by violence tear him from your palace

And torture him with grievous ling'ring death.

They say, by him the good duke Humphrey died;

They say, in him they fear your Highness' death;

And mere instinct of love and loyalty,

Free from a stubborn opposite intent,

As being thought to contradict your liking,

Makes them thus forward in his banishment.

They say, in care of your most royal person,

That if your Highness should intend to sleep,

And charge that no man should disturb your rest,

In pain of your dislike or pain of death,

Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict,

Were there a serpent seen with forked tongue

That slyly glided towards your Majesty,

It were but necessary you were waked,

Lest, being suffered in that harmful slumber,

The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal.

And therefore do they cry, though you forbid,

That they will guard you, whe'er you will or no,

From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is,

With whose envenomed and fatal sting

Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth,

They say, is shamefully bereft of life.

An answer from the King, my lord of Salisbury!

'Tis like the Commons, rude unpolished hinds,

Could send such message to their sovereign!

But you, my lord, were glad to be

employed,

To show how quaint an orator you are.

But all the honor Salisbury hath won

Is that he was the lord ambassador

Sent from a sort of tinkers to the King.

An answer from the King, or we will all break in.

Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me,

I thank them for their tender loving care;

And, had I not been cited so by them,

Yet did I purpose as they do entreat.

For, sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy

Mischance unto my state by Suffolk's means.

And therefore, by His Majesty I swear,

Whose far unworthy deputy I am,

He shall not breathe infection in this air

But three days longer, on the pain of death.

O Henry, let me plead for gentle Suffolk!

Ungentle queen to call him gentle Suffolk!

No more, I say. If thou dost plead for him,

Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath.

Had I but said, I would have kept my word;

But when I swear, it is irrevocable.

If, after three days' space, thou here

be'st found

On any ground that I am ruler of,

The world shall not be ransom for thy life.--

Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me.

I have great matters to impart to thee.

Mischance and sorrow go along with you!

Heart's discontent and sour affliction

Be playfellows to keep you company!

There's two of you; the devil make a third,

And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps!

Cease, gentle queen, these execrations,

And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave.

Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted wretch!

Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemies?

A plague upon them! Wherefore should I curse

them?

Could curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan,

I would invent as bitter searching terms,

As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear,

Delivered strongly through my fixed teeth,

With full as many signs of deadly hate,

As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave.

My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words;

Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;

Mine hair be fixed on end, as one distract;

Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban;

And even now my burdened heart would break

Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!

Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste;

Their sweetest shade, a grove of cypress trees;

Their chiefest prospect, murd'ring basilisks;

Their softest touch, as smart as lizards' stings!

Their music, frightful as the serpent's hiss,

And boding screech owls make the consort full!

All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell--

Enough, sweet Suffolk, thou torment'st thyself,

And these dread curses, like the sun 'gainst glass,

Or like an over-charged gun, recoil

And turn the force of them upon thyself.

You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?

Now, by the ground that I am banished from,

Well could I curse away a winter's night,

Though standing naked on a mountain top

Where biting cold would never let grass grow,

And think it but a minute spent in sport.

O, let me entreat thee cease! Give me thy hand,

That I may dew it with my mournful tears;

Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place

To wash away my woeful monuments.

O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand,

That thou mightst think upon these by the seal,

Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for

thee!

So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief;

'Tis but surmised whiles thou art standing by,

As one that surfeits thinking on a want.

I will repeal thee, or, be well assured,

Adventure to be banished myself;

And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go, speak not to me. Even now be gone!

O, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemned

Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves,

Loather a hundred times to part than die.

Yet now farewell, and farewell life with thee.

Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,

Once by the King, and three times thrice by thee.

'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence.

A wilderness is populous enough,

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company;

For where thou art, there is the world itself,

With every several pleasure in the world;

And where thou art not, desolation.

I can no more. Live thou to joy thy life;

Myself no joy in naught but that thou liv'st.

Whither goes Vaux so fast? What news, I prithee?

To signify unto his Majesty,

That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death;

For suddenly a grievous sickness took him

That makes him gasp and stare and catch the air,

Blaspheming God and cursing men on Earth.

Sometimes he talks as if Duke Humphrey's ghost

Were by his side; sometimes he calls the King

And whispers to his pillow, as to him,

The secrets of his overcharged soul.

And I am sent to tell his Majesty

That even now he cries aloud for him.

Go, tell this heavy message to the King.

Ay me! What is this world? What news are these!

But wherefore grieve I at an hour's poor loss,

Omitting Suffolk's exile, my soul's treasure?

Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee,

And with the southern clouds contend in tears--

Theirs for the earth's increase, mine for my

sorrows'?

Now get thee hence. The King, thou know'st, is

coming;

If thou be found by me, thou art but dead.

If I depart from thee, I cannot live;

And in thy sight to die, what were it else

But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?

Here could I breathe my soul into the air,

As mild and gentle as the cradle babe

Dying with mother's dug between its lips;

Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad

And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,

To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth.

So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul,

Or I should breathe it so into thy body,

And then it lived in sweet Elysium.

To die by thee were but to die in jest;

From thee to die were torture more than death.

O, let me stay, befall what may befall!

Away! Though parting be a fretful corrosive,

It is applied to a deathful wound.

To France, sweet Suffolk. Let me hear from thee,

For wheresoe'er thou art in this world's globe,

I'll have an Iris that shall find thee out.

I go.

And take my heart with thee.

A jewel locked into the woefull'st cask

That ever did contain a thing of worth!

Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we.

This way fall I to death.

This way for me.

How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy sovereign.

If thou be'st Death, I'll give thee England's treasure,

Enough to purchase such another island,

So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain.

Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,

Where Death's approach is seen so terrible!

Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.

Bring me unto my trial when you will.

Died he not in his bed? Where should he die?

Can I make men live, whe'er they will or no?

O, torture me no more! I will confess.

Alive again? Then show me where he is.

I'll give a thousand pound to look upon him.

He hath no eyes! The dust hath blinded them.

Comb down his hair. Look, look. It stands upright,

Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.

Give me some drink, and bid the apothecary

Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

O, Thou eternal mover of the heavens,

Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch!

O, beat away the busy meddling fiend

That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul,

And from his bosom purge this black despair!

See how the pangs of death do make him grin!

Disturb him not. Let him pass peaceably.

Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!--

Lord Card'nal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss,

Hold up thy hand; make signal of thy hope.

He dies and makes no sign. O, God forgive him!

So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.

Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,

And let us all to meditation.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day

Is crept into the bosom of the sea,

And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades

That drag the tragic melancholy night,

Who, with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings

Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws

Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air.

Therefore bring forth the soldiers of our prize;

For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs,

Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,

Or with their blood stain this discolored shore.--

Master, this prisoner freely give I thee.--

And, thou that art his mate, make boot of this.--

The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share.

What is my ransom, master? Let me know.

A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head.

And so much shall you give, or off goes yours.

What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns,

And bear the name and port of gentlemen?--

Cut both the villains' throats--for die you shall;

The lives of those which we have lost in fight

Be counterpoised with such a petty sum!

I'll give it, sir, and therefore spare my life.

And so will I, and write home for it straight.

I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,

And therefore to revenge it shalt thou die;

And so should these, if I might have my will.

Be not so rash. Take ransom; let him live.

Look on my George; I am a gentleman.

Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.

And so am I. My name is Walter Whitmore.

How now, why starts thou? What, doth death

affright?

Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.

A cunning man did calculate my birth

And told me that by water I should die.

Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded;

Thy name is Gualtier, being rightly sounded.

Gualtier or Walter, which it is, I care not.

Never yet did base dishonor blur our name

But with our sword we wiped away the blot.

Therefore, when merchantlike I sell revenge,

Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defaced,

And I proclaimed a coward through the world!

Stay, Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a prince,

The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Pole.

The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags?

Ay, but these rags are no part of the Duke.

Jove sometimes went disguised, and why not I?

But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.

Obscure and lousy swain, King Henry's blood,

The honorable blood of Lancaster,

Must not be shed by such a jaded groom.

Hast thou not kissed thy hand and held my stirrup?

Bareheaded plodded by my footcloth mule,

And thought thee happy when I shook my head?

How often hast thou waited at my cup,

Fed from my trencher, kneeled down at the board,

When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?

Remember it, and let it make thee crestfall'n,

Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride.

How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood

And duly waited for my coming forth?

This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,

And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.

Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?

First let my words stab him as he hath me.

Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou.

Convey him hence, and on our longboat's side,

Strike off his head.

Thou dar'st not for thy own.

Yes, Pole.

Pole!

Pole! Sir Pole! Lord!

Ay, kennel, puddle, sink, whose filth and dirt

Troubles the silver spring where England drinks!

Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth

For swallowing the treasure of the realm.

Thy lips that kissed the Queen shall sweep the

ground,

And thou that smiledst at good Duke Humphrey's

death

Against the senseless winds shall grin in vain,

Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again.

And wedded be thou to the hags of hell

For daring to affy a mighty lord

Unto the daughter of a worthless king,

Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.

By devilish policy art thou grown great,

And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorged

With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart.

By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France.

The false revolting Normans thorough thee

Disdain to call us lord, and Picardy

Hath slain their governors, surprised our forts,

And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.

The princely Warwick, and the Nevilles all,

Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,

As hating thee, are rising up in arms.

And now the house of York, thrust from the crown

By shameful murder of a guiltless king

And lofty, proud, encroaching tyranny,

Burns with revenging fire, whose hopeful colors

Advance our half-faced sun, striving to shine,

Under the which is writ Invitis nubibus.

The commons here in Kent are up in arms,

And, to conclude, reproach and beggary

Is crept into the palace of our king,

And all by thee.--Away! Convey him hence.

O, that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder

Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges!

Small things make base men proud. This villain

here,

Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more

Than Bargulus, the strong Illyrian pirate.

Drones suck not eagles' blood, but rob beehives.

It is impossible that I should die

By such a lowly vassal as thyself.

Thy words move rage and not remorse in me.

I go of message from the Queen to France.

I charge thee waft me safely cross the Channel.

Walter.

Come, Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death.

Paene gelidus timor occupat artus.

It is thee I fear.

Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave thee.

What, are you daunted now? Now will you stoop?

My gracious lord, entreat him; speak him fair.

Suffolk's imperial tongue is stern and rough,

Used to command, untaught to plead for favor.

Far be it we should honor such as these

With humble suit. No, rather let my head

Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any

Save to the God of heaven and to my king;

And sooner dance upon a bloody pole

Than stand uncovered to the vulgar groom.

True nobility is exempt from fear.--

More can I bear than you dare execute.

Hale him away, and let him talk no more.

Come, soldiers, show what cruelty you can,

That this my death may never be forgot!

Great men oft die by vile bezonians:

A Roman sworder and banditto slave

Murdered sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand

Stabbed Julius Caesar; savage islanders

Pompey the Great, and Suffolk dies by pirates.

And as for these whose ransom we have set,

It is our pleasure one of them depart.

Therefore come you with us,

and let him go.

There let his head and lifeless body lie,

Until the Queen his mistress bury it.

O, barbarous and bloody spectacle!

His body will I bear unto the King.

If he revenge it not, yet will his friends.

So will the Queen, that living held him dear.

Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a

lath. They have been up these two days.

They have the more need to sleep now, then.

I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to dress

the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap

upon it.

So he had need, for 'tis threadbare. Well, I

say, it was never merry world in England since

gentlemen came up.

O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in

handicraftsmen.

The nobility think scorn to go in leather

aprons.

Nay, more, the King's Council are no good

workmen.

True, and yet it is said Labor in thy vocation,

which is as much to say as Let the magistrates

be laboring men. And therefore should we

be magistrates.

Thou hast hit it, for there's no better sign of a

brave mind than a hard hand.

I see them, I see them! There's Best's son, the

tanner of Wingham--

He shall have the skins of our enemies to make

dog's leather of.

And Dick the butcher--

Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity's

throat cut like a calf.

And Smith the weaver.

Argo, their thread of life is spun.

Come, come, let's fall in with them.

We, John Cade, so termed of our supposed

father--

Or rather of stealing a cade of herrings.

For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired

with the spirit of putting down kings and princes--

command silence.

Silence!

My father was a Mortimer--

He was an honest man and a good

bricklayer.

My mother a Plantagenet--

I knew her well; she was a midwife.

My wife descended of the Lacys.

She was indeed a peddler's daughter, and

sold many laces.

But now of late, not able to travel with

her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home.

Therefore am I of an honorable house.

Ay, by my faith, the field is honorable;

and there was he born, under a hedge, for his

father had never a house but the cage.

Valiant I am--

He must needs, for beggary is valiant.

I am able to endure much--

No question of that; for I have seen him

whipped three market-days together.

I fear neither sword nor fire.

He need not fear the sword, for his coat

is of proof.

But methinks he should stand in fear of

fire, being burnt i' th' hand for stealing of sheep.

Be brave, then, for your captain is brave and

vows reformation. There shall be in England seven

halfpenny loaves sold for a penny. The three-hooped

pot shall have ten hoops, and I will make it

felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in

common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to

grass. And when I am king, as king I will be--

God save your Majesty!

I thank you, good people.--There shall be no

money; all shall eat and drink on my score; and I

will apparel them all in one livery, that they may

agree like brothers and worship me their lord.

The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable

thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should

be made parchment? That parchment, being scribbled

o'er, should undo a man? Some say the bee

stings, but I say, 'tis the beeswax; for I did but seal

once to a thing, and I was never mine own man

since. How now? Who's there?

The clerk of Chartham. He can write and read

and cast account.

O, monstrous!

We took him setting of boys' copies.

Here's a villain!

H'as a book in his pocket with red letters in 't.

Nay, then, he is a conjurer.

Nay, he can make obligations and write court

hand.

I am sorry for 't. The man is a proper man, of

mine honor. Unless I find him guilty, he shall not

die.--Come hither, sirrah; I must examine thee.

What is thy name?

Emmanuel.

They use to write it on the top of letters.--'Twill

go hard with you.

Let me alone.--Dost thou use to write thy

name? Or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an

honest, plain-dealing man?

Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought

up that I can write my name.

He hath confessed. Away with him! He's a villain

and a traitor.

Away with him, I say! Hang him with his pen

and inkhorn about his neck.

Where's our general?

Here I am, thou particular fellow.

Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his

brother are hard by, with the King's forces.

Stand, villain, stand, or I'll fell thee down. He

shall be encountered with a man as good as himself.

He is but a knight, is he?

No.

To equal him I will make myself a knight

presently. Rise up Sir John Mortimer.

Now have at him!

Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,

Marked for the gallows, lay your weapons down!

Home to your cottages; forsake this groom.

The King is merciful, if you revolt.

But angry, wrathful, and inclined to blood,

If you go forward. Therefore yield, or die.

As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not.

It is to you, good people, that I speak,

Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign,

For I am rightful heir unto the crown.

Villain, thy father was a plasterer,

And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not?

And Adam was a gardener.

And what of that?

Marry, this: Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March,

Married the Duke of Clarence' daughter, did he not?

Ay, sir.

By her he had two children at one birth.

That's false.

Ay, there's the question. But I say 'tis true.

The elder of them, being put to nurse,

Was by a beggar-woman stol'n away,

And, ignorant of his birth and parentage,

Became a bricklayer when he came to age.

His son am I. Deny it if you can.

Nay, 'tis too true. Therefore he shall be king.

Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house,

and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it.

Therefore deny it not.

And will you credit this base drudge's words,

That speaks he knows not what?

Ay, marry, will we. Therefore get you gone.

Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this.

He lies, for I invented it myself.--Go to,

sirrah. Tell the King from me that, for his father's

sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to

span-counter for French crowns, I am content he

shall reign, but I'll be Protector over him.

And, furthermore, we'll have the Lord Saye's

head for selling the dukedom of Maine.

And good reason: for thereby is England mained

and fain to go with a staff, but that my puissance

holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord

Saye hath gelded the commonwealth and made it

an eunuch; and, more than that, he can speak

French, and therefore he is a traitor.

O, gross and miserable ignorance!

Nay, answer if you can. The Frenchmen are our

enemies. Go to, then, I ask but this: can he that

speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good

counselor, or no?

No, no, and therefore we'll have his head!

Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail,

Assail them with the army of the King.

Herald, away, and throughout every town

Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade,

That those which fly before the battle ends

May, even in their wives' and children's sight

Be hanged up for example at their doors.--

And you that be the King's friends, follow me.

And you that love the Commons, follow me.

Now show yourselves men. 'Tis for liberty!

We will not leave one lord, one gentleman;

Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon,

For they are thrifty, honest men and such

As would, but that they dare not, take our parts.

They are all in order and march toward us.

But then are we in order when we are most out

of order. Come, march forward.

Where's Dick, the butcher of Ashford?

Here, sir.

They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and

thou behaved'st thyself as if thou hadst been in

thine own slaughterhouse. Therefore, thus will I

reward thee: the Lent shall be as long again as it is,

and thou shalt have a license to kill for a hundred

lacking one.

I desire no more.

And to speak truth, thou deserv'st no less. This

monument of the victory will I bear.

And the bodies shall be dragged at my horse

heels till I do come to London, where we will have

the Mayor's sword borne before us.

If we mean to thrive and do good, break open

the jails and let out the prisoners.

Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let's march

towards London.

Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind

And makes it fearful and degenerate.

Think therefore on revenge, and cease to weep.

But who can cease to weep and look on this?

Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast,

But where's the body that I should embrace?

What answer makes your Grace to the rebels'

supplication?

I'll send some holy bishop to entreat,

For God forbid so many simple souls

Should perish by the sword! And I myself,

Rather than bloody war shall cut them short,

Will parley with Jack Cade, their general.

But stay, I'll read it over once again.

Ah, barbarous villains! Hath this lovely face

Ruled, like a wandering planet, over me,

And could it not enforce them to relent

That were unworthy to behold the same?

Lord Saye, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head.

Ay, but I hope your Highness shall have his.

How now, madam?

Still lamenting and mourning for Suffolk's death?

I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,

Thou wouldst not have mourned so much for me.

No, my love, I should not mourn, but die for thee.

How now, what news? Why com'st thou in such

haste?

The rebels are in Southwark. Fly, my lord!

Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer,

Descended from the Duke of Clarence' house,

And calls your Grace usurper, openly,

And vows to crown himself in Westminster.

His army is a ragged multitude

Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless.

Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother's death

Hath given them heart and courage to proceed.

All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen

They call false caterpillars and intend their death.

O, graceless men, they know not what they do!

My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth

Until a power be raised to put them down.

Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive,

These Kentish rebels would be soon appeased!

Lord Saye, the traitors hateth thee;

Therefore away with us to Killingworth.

So might your Grace's person be in danger.

The sight of me is odious in their eyes;

And therefore in this city will I stay

And live alone as secret as I may.

Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge.

The citizens fly and forsake their houses.

The rascal people, thirsting after prey,

Join with the traitor, and they jointly swear

To spoil the city and your royal court.

Then linger not, my lord. Away! Take horse!

Come, Margaret. God, our hope, will succor us.

My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceased.

Farewell, my lord. Trust not the Kentish rebels.

Trust nobody, for fear you be betrayed.

The trust I have is in mine innocence,

And therefore am I bold and resolute.

How now? Is Jack Cade slain?

No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for

they have won the Bridge, killing all those that

withstand them. The Lord Mayor craves aid of

your Honor from the Tower to defend the city

from the rebels.

Such aid as I can spare you shall command;

But I am troubled here with them myself:

The rebels have essayed to win the Tower.

But get you to Smithfield and gather head,

And thither I will send you Matthew Gough.

Fight for your king, your country, and your lives.

And so farewell, for I must hence again.

Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting

upon London Stone, I charge and command

that, of the city's cost, the Pissing Conduit run

nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign.

And now henceforward it shall be treason for any

that calls me other than Lord Mortimer.

Jack Cade, Jack Cade!

Knock him down there.

If this fellow be wise, he'll never call you Jack

Cade more. I think he hath a very fair warning.

My lord, there's an army gathered together in

Smithfield.

Come, then, let's go fight with them. But first, go

and set London Bridge on fire, and, if you can,

burn down the Tower too. Come, let's away.

So, sirs. Now go some and pull down the Savoy;

others to th' Inns of Court. Down with them all!

I have a suit unto your Lordship.

Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word.

Only that the laws of England may come out of

your mouth.

Mass, 'twill be sore law, then, for he

was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and 'tis not

whole yet.

Nay, John, it will be stinking law, for

his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese.

I have thought upon it; it shall be so. Away!

Burn all the records of the realm. My mouth shall

be the Parliament of England.

Then we are like to have biting

statutes--unless his teeth be pulled out.

And henceforward all things shall be in

common.

My lord, a prize, a prize! Here's the Lord

Saye, which sold the towns in France, he that

made us pay one-and-twenty fifteens, and one

shilling to the pound, the last subsidy.

Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times.--Ah,

thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord, now

art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction

regal. What canst thou answer to my Majesty for

giving up of Normandy unto Monsieur Basimecu,

the Dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee by

these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer,

that I am the besom that must sweep the

court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast

most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm

in erecting a grammar school; and whereas,

before, our forefathers had no other books but the

score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be

used, and, contrary to the King his crown and dignity,

thou hast built a paper mill. It will be proved

to thy face that thou hast men about thee that usually

talk of a noun and a verb and such abominable

words as no Christian ear can endure to hear.

Thou hast appointed justices of peace to call poor

men before them about matters they were not able

to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison;

and, because they could not read, thou hast

hanged them, when indeed only for that cause

they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride

on a footcloth, dost thou not?

What of that?

Marry, thou oughtst not to let thy horse wear a

cloak when honester men than thou go in their

hose and doublets.

And work in their shirt too--as myself, for example,

that am a butcher.

You men of Kent--

What say you of Kent?

Nothing but this: 'tis bona terra, mala gens.

Away with him, away with him! He speaks

Latin.

Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will.

Kent, in the commentaries Caesar writ,

Is termed the civil'st place of all this isle.

Sweet is the country, because full of riches;

The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy;

Which makes me hope you are not void of pity.

I sold not Maine; I lost not Normandy;

Yet to recover them would lose my life.

Justice with favor have I always done;

Prayers and tears have moved me; gifts could never.

When have I aught exacted at your hands

Kent to maintain, the King, the realm, and you?

Large gifts have I bestowed on learned clerks,

Because my book preferred me to the King.

And seeing ignorance is the curse of God,

Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven,

Unless you be possessed with devilish spirits,

You cannot but forbear to murder me.

This tongue hath parleyed unto foreign kings

For your behoof--

Tut, when struck'st thou one blow in the field?

Great men have reaching hands. Oft have I struck

Those that I never saw, and struck them dead.

O monstrous coward! What, to come behind

folks?

These cheeks are pale for watching for your good.

Give him a box o' th' ear, and that will make 'em

red again.

Long sitting to determine poor men's causes

Hath made me full of sickness and diseases.

You shall have a hempen caudle, then, and

the help of hatchet.

Why dost thou quiver, man?

The palsy, and not fear, provokes me.

Nay, he nods at us, as who should say I'll be

even with you. I'll see if his head will stand steadier

on a pole, or no. Take him away, and behead

him.

Tell me, wherein have I offended most?

Have I affected wealth or honor? Speak.

Are my chests filled up with extorted gold?

Is my apparel sumptuous to behold?

Whom have I injured, that you seek my death?

These hands are free from guiltless blood-shedding,

This breast from harboring foul deceitful thoughts.

O, let me live!

I feel remorse in myself with his words, but I'll

bridle it. He shall die, an it be but for pleading so

well for his life. Away with him! He has a familiar

under his tongue; he speaks not i' God's name. Go,

take him away, I say, and strike off his head

presently; and then break into his son-in-law's

house, Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head;

and bring them both upon two poles hither.

It shall be done.

Ah, countrymen, if when you make your prayers,

God should be so obdurate as yourselves,

How would it fare with your departed souls?

And therefore yet relent, and save my life.

Away with him, and do as I command you.

The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a

head on his shoulders unless he pay me tribute.

There shall not a maid be married but she shall

pay to me her maidenhead ere they have it. Men

shall hold of me in capite; and we charge and command

that their wives be as free as heart can wish

or tongue can tell.

My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside and take

up commodities upon our bills?

Marry, presently.

O, brave!

But is not this braver? Let them kiss one another,

for they loved well when they were alive.

Now part them again,

lest they consult about the giving up of some more

towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the

city until night, for, with these borne before us

instead of maces, will we ride through the streets

and at every corner have them kiss. Away!

Up Fish Street! Down Saint Magnus' Corner!

Kill and knock down! Throw them into Thames!

What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to

sound retreat or parley when I command them

kill?

Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee.

Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the King

Unto the Commons, whom thou hast misled,

And here pronounce free pardon to them all

That will forsake thee and go home in peace.

What say you, countrymen? Will you relent

And yield to mercy whil'st 'tis offered you,

Or let a rabble lead you to your deaths?

Who loves the King and will embrace his pardon,

Fling up his cap and say God save his Majesty!

Who hateth him and honors not his father,

Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake,

Shake he his weapon at us and pass by.

God save the King! God save the King!

What, Buckingham and Clifford, are you so

brave?--And, you base peasants, do you believe

him? Will you needs be hanged with your pardons

about your necks? Hath my sword therefore broke

through London gates, that you should leave me at

the White Hart in Southwark? I thought you

would never have given out these arms till you had

recovered your ancient freedom. But you are all

recreants and dastards, and delight to live in slavery

to the nobility. Let them break your backs with

burdens, take your houses over your heads, ravish

your wives and daughters before your faces. For

me, I will make shift for one, and so God's curse

light upon you all!

We'll follow Cade! We'll follow Cade!

Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth,

That thus you do exclaim you'll go with him?

Will he conduct you through the heart of France

And make the meanest of you earls and dukes?

Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to,

Nor knows he how to live but by the spoil,

Unless by robbing of your friends and us.

Were 't not a shame that, whilst you live at jar,

The fearful French, whom you late vanquished,

Should make a start o'er seas and vanquish you?

Methinks already in this civil broil

I see them lording it in London streets,

Crying Villiago! unto all they meet.

Better ten thousand baseborn Cades miscarry

Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman's mercy.

To France, to France, and get what you have lost!

Spare England, for it is your native coast.

Henry hath money; you are strong and manly.

God on our side, doubt not of victory.

A Clifford! A Clifford! We'll follow the King and

Clifford!

Was ever feather so lightly blown to and

fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth

hales them to an hundred mischiefs and makes

them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads

together to surprise me. My sword make way for

me, for here is no staying!--In despite of the devils

and hell, have through the very middest of you!

And heavens and honor be witness that no want of

resolution in me, but only my followers' base and

ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my

heels.

What, is he fled? Go, some, and follow him;

And he that brings his head unto the King

Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward.

Follow me, soldiers. We'll devise a means

To reconcile you all unto the King.

Was ever king that joyed an earthly throne

And could command no more content than I?

No sooner was I crept out of my cradle

But I was made a king at nine months old.

Was never subject longed to be a king

As I do long and wish to be a subject!

Health and glad tidings to your Majesty!

Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surprised,

Or is he but retired to make him strong?

He is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield

And, humbly thus, with halters on their necks,

Expect your Highness' doom of life or death.

Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates

To entertain my vows of thanks and praise!

Soldiers, this day have you redeemed your lives

And showed how well you love your prince and

country.

Continue still in this so good a mind,

And Henry, though he be infortunate,

Assure yourselves, will never be unkind.

And so with thanks and pardon to you all,

I do dismiss you to your several countries.

God save the King! God save the King!

Please it your Grace to be advertised

The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland

And, with a puissant and a mighty power

Of gallowglasses and stout kerns,

Is marching hitherward in proud array,

And still proclaimeth, as he comes along,

His arms are only to remove from thee

The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor.

Thus stands my state, 'twixt Cade and York

distressed,

Like to a ship that, having scaped a tempest,

Is straightway calmed and boarded with a pirate.

But now is Cade driven back, his men dispersed,

And now is York in arms to second him.

I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him,

And ask him what's the reason of these arms.

Tell him I'll send Duke Edmund to the Tower.--

And, Somerset, we will commit thee thither

Until his army be dismissed from him.

My lord,

I'll yield myself to prison willingly,

Or unto death, to do my country good.

In any case, be not too rough in terms,

For he is fierce and cannot brook hard language.

I will, my lord, and doubt not so to deal

As all things shall redound unto your good.

Come, wife, let's in, and learn to govern better,

For yet may England curse my wretched reign.

Fie on ambitions! Fie on myself, that have a

sword and yet am ready to famish! These five days

have I hid me in these woods and durst not peep

out, for all the country is laid for me. But now am

I so hungry that, if I might have a lease of my life

for a thousand years, I could stay no longer.

Wherefore, o'er a brick wall have I climbed into

this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet

another while, which is not amiss to cool a man's

stomach this hot weather. And I think this word

sallet was born to do me good; for many a time,

but for a sallet, my brainpan had been cleft with a

brown bill; and many a time, when I have been dry

and bravely marching, it hath served me instead of

a quart pot to drink in; and now the word sallet

must serve me to feed on.

Lord, who would live turmoiled in the court

And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?

This small inheritance my father left me

Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy.

I seek not to wax great by others' waning,

Or gather wealth, I care not with what envy.

Sufficeth that I have maintains my state

And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.

Here's the lord of the soil come to seize

me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without

leave.--Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me and get a

thousand crowns of the King by carrying my head

to him; but I'll make thee eat iron like an ostrich

and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou

and I part.

Why, rude companion, whatsoe'er thou be,

I know thee not. Why, then, should I betray thee?

Is 't not enough to break into my garden

And, like a thief, to come to rob my grounds,

Climbing my walls in spite of me the owner,

But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?

Brave thee? Ay, by the best blood that ever was

broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well: I

have eat no meat these five days, yet come thou

and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as

dead as a doornail, I pray God I may never eat

grass more.

Nay, it shall ne'er be said, while England stands,

That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,

Took odds to combat a poor famished man.

Oppose thy steadfast gazing eyes to mine;

See if thou canst outface me with thy looks.

Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser;

Thy hand is but a finger to my fist,

Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon.

My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast;

And if mine arm be heaved in the air,

Thy grave is digged already in the earth.

As for words, whose greatness answers words,

Let this my sword report what speech forbears.

By my valor, the most complete champion that

ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the edge or cut not

out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere

thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech God on my

knees thou mayst be turned to hobnails.

O, I am slain! Famine, and no other, hath slain me.

Let ten thousand devils come against me, and give

me but the ten meals I have lost, and I'd defy them

all. Wither, garden, and be henceforth a burying

place to all that do dwell in this house, because the

unconquered soul of Cade is fled.

Is 't Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor?

Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed,

And hang thee o'er my tomb when I am dead.

Ne'er shall this blood be wiped from thy point,

But thou shalt wear it as a herald's coat

To emblaze the honor that thy master got.

Iden, farewell, and be proud of thy victory. Tell

Kent from me she hath lost her best man, and

exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never

feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valor.

How much thou wrong'st me, heaven be my judge!

Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee!

And as I thrust thy body in with my sword,

So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell.

Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels

Unto a dunghill, which shall be thy grave,

And there cut off thy most ungracious head,

Which I will bear in triumph to the King,

Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.

From Ireland thus comes York to claim his right

And pluck the crown from feeble Henry's head.

Ring, bells, aloud! Burn, bonfires, clear and bright

To entertain great England's lawful king!

Ah, sancta maiestas, who would not buy thee dear?

Let them obey that knows not how to rule.

This hand was made to handle naught but gold.

I cannot give due action to my words

Except a sword or scepter balance it.

A scepter shall it have, have I a soul,

On which I'll toss the fleur-de-luce of France.

Whom have we here? Buckingham, to

disturb me?

The King hath sent him, sure. I must dissemble.

York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well.

Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting.

Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure?

A messenger from Henry, our dread liege,

To know the reason of these arms in peace;

Or why thou, being a subject as I am,

Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn,

Should raise so great a power without his leave,

Or dare to bring thy force so near the court.

Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great.

O, I could hew up rocks and fight with flint,

I am so angry at these abject terms!

And now, like Ajax Telamonius,

On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury.

I am far better born than is the King,

More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts.

But I must make fair weather yet awhile,

Till Henry be more weak and I more strong.--

Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me,

That I have given no answer all this while.

My mind was troubled with deep melancholy.

The cause why I have brought this army hither

Is to remove proud Somerset from the King,

Seditious to his Grace and to the state.

That is too much presumption on thy part.

But if thy arms be to no other end,

The King hath yielded unto thy demand:

The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.

Upon thine honor, is he prisoner?

Upon mine honor, he is prisoner.

Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers.--

Soldiers, I thank you all. Disperse yourselves.

Meet me tomorrow in Saint George's field;

You shall have pay and everything you wish.

And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry,

Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons,

As pledges of my fealty and love;

I'll send them all as willing as I live.

Lands, goods, horse, armor, anything I have

Is his to use, so Somerset may die.

York, I commend this kind submission.

We twain will go into his Highness' tent.

Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us

That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?

In all submission and humility

York doth present himself unto your Highness.

Then what intends these forces thou dost bring?

To heave the traitor Somerset from hence

And fight against that monstrous rebel Cade,

Who since I heard to be discomfited.

If one so rude and of so mean condition

May pass into the presence of a king,

Lo, I present your Grace a traitor's head,

The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew.

The head of Cade? Great God, how just art Thou!

O, let me view his visage, being dead,

That living wrought me such exceeding trouble.

Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him?

I was, an 't like your Majesty.

How art thou called? And what is thy degree?

Alexander Iden, that's my name,

A poor esquire of Kent that loves his king.

So please it you, my lord, 'twere not amiss

He were created knight for his good service.

Iden, kneel down. Rise up a knight.

We give thee for reward a thousand marks,

And will that thou henceforth attend on us.

May Iden live to merit such a bounty,

And never live but true unto his liege!

See, Buckingham, Somerset comes with th' Queen.

Go bid her hide him quickly from the Duke.

For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head,

But boldly stand and front him to his face.

How now? Is Somerset at liberty?

Then, York, unloose thy long-imprisoned thoughts,

And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart.

Shall I endure the sight of Somerset?--

False king, why hast thou broken faith with me,

Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse?

King did I call thee? No, thou art not king,

Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,

Which dar'st not--no, nor canst not--rule a traitor.

That head of thine doth not become a crown;

Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer's staff,

And not to grace an awful princely scepter.

That gold must round engirt these brows of mine,

Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles' spear,

Is able with the change to kill and cure.

Here is a hand to hold a scepter up

And with the same to act controlling laws.

Give place. By heaven, thou shalt rule no more

O'er him whom heaven created for thy ruler.

O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee, York,

Of capital treason 'gainst the King and crown.

Obey, audacious traitor. Kneel for grace.

Wouldst have me kneel? First let me ask of these

If they can brook I bow a knee to man.

Sirrah, call in my sons to be my

bail.

I know, ere they will have me go to ward,

They'll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.

Call hither Clifford; bid him come amain,

To say if that the bastard boys of York

Shall be the surety for their traitor father.

O, blood-bespotted Neapolitan,

Outcast of Naples, England's bloody scourge!

The sons of York, thy betters in their birth,

Shall be their father's bail, and bane to those

That for my surety will refuse the boys.

See where they come; I'll warrant they'll make it

good.

And here comes Clifford to deny their bail.

Health and all happiness to my lord the King.

I thank thee, Clifford. Say, what news with thee?

Nay, do not fright us with an angry look.

We are thy sovereign, Clifford; kneel again.

For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee.

This is my king, York; I do not mistake,

But thou mistakes me much to think I do.--

To Bedlam with him! Is the man grown mad?

Ay, Clifford, a bedlam and ambitious humor

Makes him oppose himself against his king.

He is a traitor. Let him to the Tower,

And chop away that factious pate of his.

He is arrested, but will not obey.

His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.

Will you not, sons?

Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.

And if words will not, then our weapons shall.

Why, what a brood of traitors have we here!

Look in a glass, and call thy image so.

I am thy king and thou a false-heart traitor.

Call hither to the stake my two brave bears,

That, with the very shaking of their chains,

They may astonish these fell-lurking curs.

Bid Salisbury and Warwick come

to me.

Are these thy bears? We'll bait thy bears to death

And manacle the bearherd in their chains,

If thou dar'st bring them to the baiting place.

Oft have I seen a hot o'erweening cur

Run back and bite because he was withheld,

Who, being suffered with the bear's fell paw,

Hath clapped his tail between his legs and cried;

And such a piece of service will you do

If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick.

Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump,

As crooked in thy manners as thy shape!

Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon.

Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves.

Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to bow?--

Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair,

Thou mad misleader of thy brainsick son!

What, wilt thou on thy deathbed play the ruffian

And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles?

O, where is faith? O, where is loyalty?

If it be banished from the frosty head,

Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?

Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,

And shame thine honorable age with blood?

Why art thou old and want'st experience?

Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it?

For shame! In duty bend thy knee to me

That bows unto the grave with mickle age.

My lord, I have considered with myself

The title of this most renowned duke,

And in my conscience do repute his Grace

The rightful heir to England's royal seat.

Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?

I have.

Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath?

It is great sin to swear unto a sin,

But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.

Who can be bound by any solemn vow

To do a murd'rous deed, to rob a man,

To force a spotless virgin's chastity,

To reave the orphan of his patrimony,

To wring the widow from her customed right,

And have no other reason for this wrong

But that he was bound by a solemn oath?

A subtle traitor needs no sophister.

Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself.

Call Buckingham and all the friends thou hast,

I am resolved for death or dignity.

The first, I warrant thee, if dreams prove true.

You were best to go to bed and dream again,

To keep thee from the tempest of the field.

I am resolved to bear a greater storm

Than any thou canst conjure up today;

And that I'll write upon thy burgonet,

Might I but know thee by thy house's badge.

Now, by my father's badge, old Neville's crest,

The rampant bear chained to the ragged staff,

This day I'll wear aloft my burgonet--

As on a mountaintop the cedar shows

That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm--

Even to affright thee with the view thereof.

And from thy burgonet I'll rend thy bear

And tread it under foot with all contempt,

Despite the bearherd that protects the bear.

And so to arms, victorious father,

To quell the rebels and their complices.

Fie! Charity, for shame! Speak not in spite,

For you shall sup with Jesu Christ tonight.

Foul stigmatic, that's more than thou canst tell!

If not in heaven, you'll surely sup in hell.

Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis Warwick calls!

An if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,

Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarum

And dead men's cries do fill the empty air,

Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me;

Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,

Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.

How now, my noble lord? What, all afoot?

The deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed,

But match to match I have encountered him

And made a prey for carrion kites and crows

Even of the bonny beast he loved so well.

Of one or both of us the time is come.

Hold, Warwick! Seek thee out some other chase,

For I myself must hunt this deer to death.

Then, nobly, York! 'Tis for a crown thou fight'st.--

As I intend, Clifford, to thrive today,

It grieves my soul to leave thee unassailed.

What seest thou in me, York? Why dost thou pause?

With thy brave bearing should I be in love,

But that thou art so fast mine enemy.

Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem,

But that 'tis shown ignobly and in treason.

So let it help me now against thy sword

As I in justice and true right express it!

My soul and body on the action both!

A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.

La fin courrone les oeuvres.

Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still.

Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will!

Shame and confusion! All is on the rout.

Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds

Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell,

Whom angry heavens do make their minister,

Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part

Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly.

He that is truly dedicate to war

Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself

Hath not essentially, but by circumstance,

The name of valor. O,

let the vile world end

And the premised flames of the last day

Knit Earth and heaven together!

Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,

Particularities and petty sounds

To cease! Wast thou ordained, dear father,

To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve

The silver livery of advised age,

And, in thy reverence and thy chair-days, thus

To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight

My heart is turned to stone, and while 'tis mine,

It shall be stony. York not our old men spares;

No more will I their babes. Tears virginal

Shall be to me even as the dew to fire;

And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims,

Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax.

Henceforth I will not have to do with pity.

Meet I an infant of the house of York,

Into as many gobbets will I cut it

As wild Medea young Absyrtis did.

In cruelty will I seek out my fame.

Come, thou new ruin of old Clifford's house;

As did Aeneas old Anchises bear,

So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders.

But then Aeneas bare a living load,

Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine.

So lie thou there.

For underneath an alehouse' paltry sign,

The Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset

Hath made the wizard famous in his death.

Sword, hold thy temper! Heart, be wrathful still!

Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill.

Away, my lord! You are slow. For shame, away!

Can we outrun the heavens? Good Margaret, stay!

What are you made of? You'll nor fight nor fly.

Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defense

To give the enemy way, and to secure us

By what we can, which can no more but fly.

If you be ta'en, we then should see the bottom

Of all our fortunes; but if we haply scape,

As well we may--if not through your neglect--

We shall to London get, where you are loved

And where this breach now in our fortunes made

May readily be stopped.

But that my heart's on future mischief set,

I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly;

But fly you must. Uncurable discomfit

Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts.

Away, for your relief! And we will live

To see their day and them our fortune give.

Away, my lord, away!

Of Salisbury, who can report of him,

That winter lion, who in rage forgets

Aged contusions and all brush of time,

And, like a gallant in the brow of youth,

Repairs him with occasion? This happy day

Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,

If Salisbury be lost.

My noble father,

Three times today I holp him to his horse,

Three times bestrid him. Thrice I led him off,

Persuaded him from any further act;

But still, where danger was, still there I met him,

And, like rich hangings in a homely house,

So was his will in his old feeble body.

But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought today!

By th' Mass, so did we all. I thank you, Richard.

God knows how long it is I have to live,

And it hath pleased Him that three times today

You have defended me from imminent death.

Well, lords, we have not got that which we have;

'Tis not enough our foes are this time fled,

Being opposites of such repairing nature.

I know our safety is to follow them;

For, as I hear, the King is fled to London

To call a present court of Parliament.

Let us pursue him ere the writs go forth.--

What says Lord Warwick? Shall we after them?

After them? Nay, before them, if we can.

Now, by my hand, lords, 'twas a glorious day.

Saint Albans battle won by famous York

Shall be eternized in all age to come.--

Sound drum and trumpets, and to London all;

And more such days as these to us befall!

henry_vi_part_2

henry_vi_part_3

I wonder how the King escaped our hands.

While we pursued the horsemen of the north,

He slyly stole away and left his men;

Whereat the great lord of Northumberland,

Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat,

Cheered up the drooping army; and himself,

Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast,

Charged our main battle's front and, breaking in,

Were by the swords of common soldiers slain.

Lord Stafford's father, Duke of Buckingham,

Is either slain or wounded dangerous.

I cleft his beaver with a downright blow.

That this is true, father, behold his blood.

And, brother, here's the Earl of Wiltshire's blood,

Whom I encountered as the battles joined.

Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did.

Richard hath best deserved of all my sons.

But is your Grace dead, my lord of Somerset?

Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt!

Thus do I hope to shake King Henry's head.

And so do I, victorious prince of York.

Before I see thee seated in that throne

Which now the house of Lancaster usurps,

I vow by heaven these eyes shall never close.

This is the palace of the fearful king,

And this the regal seat. Possess it, York,

For this is thine and not King Henry's heirs'.

Assist me, then, sweet Warwick, and I will,

For hither we have broken in by force.

We'll all assist you. He that flies shall die.

Thanks, gentle Norfolk. Stay by me, my lords.--

And soldiers, stay and lodge by me this night.

And when the King comes, offer him no violence

Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce.

The Queen this day here holds her parliament,

But little thinks we shall be of her council.

By words or blows, here let us win our right.

Armed as we are, let's stay within this house.

The Bloody Parliament shall this be called

Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king

And bashful Henry deposed, whose cowardice

Hath made us bywords to our enemies.

Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute.

I mean to take possession of my right.

Neither the King nor he that loves him best,

The proudest he that holds up Lancaster,

Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells.

I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares.

Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown.

My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits,

Even in the chair of state! Belike he means,

Backed by the power of Warwick, that false peer,

To aspire unto the crown and reign as king.

Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father,

And thine, Lord Clifford, and you both have vowed

revenge

On him, his sons, his favorites, and his friends.

If I be not, heavens be revenged on me!

The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel.

What, shall we suffer this? Let's pluck him down.

My heart for anger burns. I cannot brook it.

Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmorland.

Patience is for poltroons such as he.

He durst not sit there had your father lived.

My gracious lord, here in the Parliament

Let us assail the family of York.

Well hast thou spoken, cousin. Be it so.

Ah, know you not the city favors them,

And they have troops of soldiers at their beck?

But when the Duke is slain, they'll quickly fly.

Far be the thought of this from Henry's heart,

To make a shambles of the Parliament House!

Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats

Shall be the war that Henry means to use.--

Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne

And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet.

I am thy sovereign.

I am thine.

For shame, come down. He made thee Duke of

York.

It was my inheritance, as the earldom was.

Thy father was a traitor to the crown.

Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown

In following this usurping Henry.

Whom should he follow but his natural king?

True, Clifford, that's Richard, Duke of York.

And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne?

It must and shall be so. Content thyself.

Be Duke of Lancaster. Let him be king.

He is both king and Duke of Lancaster,

And that the lord of Westmorland shall maintain.

And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget

That we are those which chased you from the field

And slew your fathers and, with colors spread,

Marched through the city to the palace gates.

Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;

And by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.

Plantagenet, of thee and these thy sons,

Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I'll have more lives

Than drops of blood were in my father's veins.

Urge it no more, lest that, instead of words,

I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger

As shall revenge his death before I stir.

Poor Clifford, how I scorn his worthless threats!

Will you we show our title to the crown?

If not, our swords shall plead it in the field.

What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown?

Thy father was as thou art, Duke of York;

Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March.

I am the son of Henry the Fifth,

Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop

And seized upon their towns and provinces.

Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.

The Lord Protector lost it and not I.

When I was crowned, I was but nine months old.

You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you

lose.--

Father, tear the crown from the usurper's head.

Sweet father, do so. Set it on your head.

Good brother, as thou lov'st and honorest arms,

Let's fight it out and not stand caviling thus.

Sound drums and trumpets, and the King will fly.

Sons, peace!

Peace thou, and give King Henry leave to speak!

Plantagenet shall speak first. Hear him, lords,

And be you silent and attentive too,

For he that interrupts him shall not live.

Think'st thou that I will leave my kingly throne,

Wherein my grandsire and my father sat?

No. First shall war unpeople this my realm;

Ay, and their colors, often borne in France,

And now in England to our heart's great sorrow,

Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords?

My title's good, and better far than his.

Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king.

Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown.

'Twas by rebellion against his king.

I know not what to say; my title's weak.--

Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir?

What then?

An if he may, then am I lawful king;

For Richard, in the view of many lords,

Resigned the crown to Henry the Fourth,

Whose heir my father was, and I am his.

He rose against him, being his sovereign,

And made him to resign his crown perforce.

Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrained,

Think you 'twere prejudicial to his crown?

No, for he could not so resign his crown

But that the next heir should succeed and reign.

Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

His is the right, and therefore pardon me.

Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not?

My conscience tells me he is lawful king.

All will revolt from me and turn to him.

Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay'st,

Think not that Henry shall be so deposed.

Deposed he shall be, in despite of all.

Thou art deceived. 'Tis not thy southern power

Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent,

Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,

Can set the Duke up in despite of me.

King Henry, be thy title right or wrong,

Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defense.

May that ground gape and swallow me alive

Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father.

O Clifford, how thy words revive my heart!

Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown.--

What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords?

Do right unto this princely Duke of York,

Or I will fill the house with armed men,

And over the chair of state, where now he sits,

Write up his title with usurping blood.

My lord of Warwick, hear but one word:

Let me for this my lifetime reign as king.

Confirm the crown to me and to mine heirs,

And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv'st.

I am content. Richard Plantagenet,

Enjoy the kingdom after my decease.

What wrong is this unto the Prince your son!

What good is this to England and himself!

Base, fearful, and despairing Henry!

How hast thou injured both thyself and us!

I cannot stay to hear these articles.

Nor I.

Come, cousin, let us tell the Queen these news.

Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king,

In whose cold blood no spark of honor bides.

Be thou a prey unto the house of York,

And die in bands for this unmanly deed.

In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome,

Or live in peace abandoned and despised!

Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not.

They seek revenge and therefore will not yield.

Ah, Exeter!

Why should you sigh, my lord?

Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son,

Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit.

But be it as it may. I here entail

The crown to thee and to thine heirs forever,

Conditionally, that here thou take an oath

To cease this civil war and, whilst I live,

To honor me as thy king and sovereign,

And neither by treason nor hostility

To seek to put me down and reign thyself.

This oath I willingly take and will perform.

Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, embrace him.

And long live thou and these thy forward sons!

Now York and Lancaster are reconciled.

Accursed be he that seeks to make them foes.

Farewell, my gracious lord. I'll to my castle.

And I'll keep London with my soldiers.

And I to Norfolk with my followers.

And I unto the sea, from whence I came.

And I with grief and sorrow to the court.

Here comes the Queen, whose looks bewray her

anger.

I'll steal away.

Exeter, so will I.

Nay, go not from me. I will follow thee.

Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay.

Who can be patient in such extremes?

Ah, wretched man, would I had died a maid

And never seen thee, never borne thee son,

Seeing thou hast proved so unnatural a father.

Hath he deserved to lose his birthright thus?

Hadst thou but loved him half so well as I,

Or felt that pain which I did for him once,

Or nourished him as I did with my blood,

Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood

there,

Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir

And disinherited thine only son.

Father, you cannot disinherit me.

If you be king, why should not I succeed?

Pardon me, Margaret.--Pardon me, sweet son.

The Earl of Warwick and the Duke enforced me.

Enforced thee? Art thou king and wilt be forced?

I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch,

Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me,

And giv'n unto the house of York such head

As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance!

To entail him and his heirs unto the crown,

What is it but to make thy sepulcher

And creep into it far before thy time?

Warwick is Chancellor and the lord of Callice;

Stern Falconbridge commands the Narrow Seas;

The Duke is made Protector of the realm;

And yet shalt thou be safe? Such safety finds

The trembling lamb environed with wolves.

Had I been there, which am a silly woman,

The soldiers should have tossed me on their pikes

Before I would have granted to that act.

But thou preferr'st thy life before thine honor.

And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself

Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed,

Until that act of Parliament be repealed

Whereby my son is disinherited.

The northern lords that have forsworn thy colors

Will follow mine if once they see them spread;

And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace

And utter ruin of the house of York.

Thus do I leave thee.--Come, son, let's away.

Our army is ready. Come, we'll after them.

Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.

Thou hast spoke too much already. Get thee gone.

Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me?

Ay, to be murdered by his enemies!

When I return with victory from the field,

I'll see your Grace. Till then, I'll follow her.

Come, son, away. We may not linger thus.

Poor queen! How love to me and to her son

Hath made her break out into terms of rage!

Revenged may she be on that hateful duke,

Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,

Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle

Tire on the flesh of me and of my son.

The loss of those three lords torments my heart.

I'll write unto them and entreat them fair.

Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger.

And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.

Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.

No, I can better play the orator.

But I have reasons strong and forcible.

Why, how now, sons and brother, at a strife?

What is your quarrel? How began it first?

No quarrel, but a slight contention.

About what?

About that which concerns your Grace and us:

The crown of England, father, which is yours.

Mine, boy? Not till King Henry be dead.

Your right depends not on his life or death.

Now you are heir; therefore enjoy it now.

By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,

It will outrun you, father, in the end.

I took an oath that he should quietly reign.

But for a kingdom any oath may be broken.

I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.

No, God forbid your Grace should be forsworn.

I shall be, if I claim by open war.

I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak.

Thou canst not, son; it is impossible.

An oath is of no moment, being not took

Before a true and lawful magistrate

That hath authority over him that swears.

Henry had none, but did usurp the place.

Then, seeing 'twas he that made you to depose,

Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.

Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think

How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,

Within whose circuit is Elysium

And all that poets feign of bliss and joy.

Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest

Until the white rose that I wear be dyed

Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.

Richard, enough. I will be king or die.--

Brother, thou shalt to London presently,

And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.--

Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk

And tell him privily of our intent.--

You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham,

With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise;

In them I trust, for they are soldiers

Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.

While you are thus employed, what resteth more

But that I seek occasion how to rise,

And yet the King not privy to my drift,

Nor any of the house of Lancaster.

But stay, what news? Why com'st thou in such post?

The Queen with all the northern earls and lords

Intend here to besiege you in your castle.

She is hard by with twenty thousand men.

And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

Ay, with my sword. What, think'st thou that we fear

them?--

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;

My brother Montague shall post to London.

Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,

Whom we have left Protectors of the King,

With powerful policy strengthen themselves

And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.

Brother, I go. I'll win them, fear it not.

And thus most humbly I do take my leave.

Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles,

You are come to Sandal in a happy hour.

The army of the Queen mean to besiege us.

She shall not need; we'll meet her in the field.

What, with five thousand men?

Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need.

A woman's general; what should we fear?

I hear their drums. Let's set our men in order,

And issue forth and bid them battle straight.

Five men to twenty: though the odds be great,

I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.

Many a battle have I won in France

Whenas the enemy hath been ten to one.

Why should I not now have the like success?

Ah, whither shall I fly to scape their hands?

Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes.

Chaplain, away. Thy priesthood saves thy life.

As for the brat of this accursed duke,

Whose father slew my father, he shall die.

And I, my lord, will bear him company.

Soldiers, away with him.

Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child,

Lest thou be hated both of God and man.

How now? Is he dead already? Or is it fear

That makes him close his eyes? I'll open them.

So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch

That trembles under his devouring paws;

And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey;

And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.

Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword

And not with such a cruel threat'ning look.

Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I die.

I am too mean a subject for thy wrath.

Be thou revenged on men, and let me live.

In vain thou speak'st, poor boy. My father's blood

Hath stopped the passage where thy words should

enter.

Then let my father's blood open it again;

He is a man and, Clifford, cope with him.

Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine

Were not revenge sufficient for me.

No, if I digged up thy forefathers' graves

And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,

It could not slake mine ire nor ease my heart.

The sight of any of the house of York

Is as a fury to torment my soul,

And till I root out their accursed line

And leave not one alive, I live in hell.

Therefore--

O, let me pray before I take my death!

To thee I pray: sweet Clifford, pity me!

Such pity as my rapier's point affords.

I never did thee harm. Why wilt thou slay me?

Thy father hath.

But 'twas ere I was born.

Thou hast one son; for his sake pity me,

Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just,

He be as miserably slain as I.

Ah, let me live in prison all my days,

And when I give occasion of offense

Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.

No cause? Thy father slew my father; therefore die.

Di faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae!

Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet!

And this thy son's blood, cleaving to my blade,

Shall rust upon my weapon till thy blood,

Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both.

The army of the Queen hath got the field.

My uncles both are slain in rescuing me;

And all my followers to the eager foe

Turn back and fly like ships before the wind,

Or lambs pursued by hunger-starved wolves.

My sons, God knows what hath bechanced them;

But this I know: they have demeaned themselves

Like men borne to renown by life or death.

Three times did Richard make a lane to me

And thrice cried Courage, father, fight it out!

And full as oft came Edward to my side,

With purple falchion painted to the hilt

In blood of those that had encountered him;

And when the hardiest warriors did retire,

Richard cried Charge, and give no foot of ground!

And cried A crown or else a glorious tomb;

A scepter or an earthly sepulcher!

With this we charged again; but, out alas,

We budged again, as I have seen a swan

With bootless labor swim against the tide

And spend her strength with over-matching waves.

Ah, hark, the fatal followers do pursue,

And I am faint and cannot fly their fury;

And were I strong, I would not shun their fury.

The sands are numbered that makes up my life.

Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

Come, bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland,

I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.

I am your butt, and I abide your shot.

Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet.

Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm

With downright payment showed unto my father.

Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his car

And made an evening at the noontide prick.

My ashes, as the Phoenix', may bring forth

A bird that will revenge upon you all;

And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven,

Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with.

Why come you not? What, multitudes, and fear?

So cowards fight when they can fly no further;

So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons;

So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,

Breathe out invectives 'gainst the officers.

O Clifford, but bethink thee once again

And in thy thought o'errun my former time;

And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face

And bite thy tongue that slanders him with cowardice

Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.

I will not bandy with thee word for word,

But buckler with thee blows twice two for one.

Hold, valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes

I would prolong a while the traitor's life.--

Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland.

Hold, Clifford, do not honor him so much

To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.

What valor were it when a cur doth grin

For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,

When he might spurn him with his foot away?

It is war's prize to take all vantages,

And ten to one is no impeach of valor.

Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with the gin.

So doth the coney struggle in the net.

So triumph thieves upon their conquered booty;

So true men yield with robbers, so o'ermatched.

What would your Grace have done unto him now?

Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland,

Come, make him stand upon this molehill here

That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,

Yet parted but the shadow with his hand.

What, was it you that would be England's king?

Was 't you that reveled in our parliament

And made a preachment of your high descent?

Where are your mess of sons to back you now,

The wanton Edward and the lusty George?

And where's that valiant crookback prodigy,

Dickie, your boy, that with his grumbling voice

Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies?

Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland?

Look, York, I stained this napkin with the blood

That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point

Made issue from the bosom of the boy;

And if thine eyes can water for his death,

I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.

Alas, poor York, but that I hate thee deadly

I should lament thy miserable state.

I prithee grieve to make me merry, York.

What, hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrails

That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death?

Why art thou patient, man? Thou shouldst be mad;

And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus.

Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.

Thou would'st be fee'd, I see, to make me sport.--

York cannot speak unless he wear a crown.

A crown for York!

And, lords, bow low to him.

Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on.

Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king.

Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair,

And this is he was his adopted heir.

But how is it that great Plantagenet

Is crowned so soon and broke his solemn oath?--

As I bethink me, you should not be king

Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.

And will you pale your head in Henry's glory

And rob his temples of the diadem

Now, in his life, against your holy oath?

O, 'tis a fault too too unpardonable.

Off with the crown and, with the crown, his head;

And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.

That is my office, for my father's sake.

Nay, stay, let's hear the orisons he makes.

She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of

France,

Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth:

How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex

To triumph like an Amazonian trull

Upon their woes whom Fortune captivates.

But that thy face is vizard-like, unchanging,

Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush.

To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom derived,

Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not

shameless.

Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,

Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem,

Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman.

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult?

It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen,

Unless the adage must be verified

That beggars mounted run their horse to death.

'Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud,

But God He knows thy share thereof is small.

'Tis virtue that doth make them most admired;

The contrary doth make thee wondered at.

'Tis government that makes them seem divine;

The want thereof makes thee abominable.

Thou art as opposite to every good

As the Antipodes are unto us

Or as the south to the Septentrion.

O, tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide,

How couldst thou drain the lifeblood of the child

To bid the father wipe his eyes withal,

And yet be seen to bear a woman's face?

Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible;

Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Bidd'st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish.

Wouldst have me weep? Why, now thou hast thy will;

For raging wind blows up incessant showers,

And when the rage allays, the rain begins.

These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies,

And every drop cries vengeance for his death

'Gainst thee, fell Clifford, and thee, false

Frenchwoman!

Beshrew me, but his passions moves me so

That hardly can I check my eyes from tears.

That face of his the hungry cannibals

Would not have touched, would not have stained

with blood;

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,

O, ten times more than tigers of Hyrcania.

See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears.

This cloth thou dipped'st in blood of my sweet boy,

And I with tears do wash the blood away.

Keep thou the napkin and go boast of this;

And if thou tell'st the heavy story right,

Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears.

Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears

And say Alas, it was a piteous deed.

There, take the crown and, with the crown, my

curse,

And in thy need such comfort come to thee

As now I reap at thy too cruel hand.--

Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world,

My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads.

Had he been slaughterman to all my kin,

I should not for my life but weep with him

To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.

What, weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland?

Think but upon the wrong he did us all,

And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.

Here's for my oath; here's for my father's death!

And here's to right our gentle-hearted king.

Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God.

My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee.

Off with his head, and set it on York gates,

So York may overlook the town of York.

I wonder how our princely father scaped,

Or whether he be scaped away or no

From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit.

Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news;

Had he been slain, we should have heard the news;

Or had he scaped, methinks we should have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.

How fares my brother? Why is he so sad?

I cannot joy until I be resolved

Where our right valiant father is become.

I saw him in the battle range about

And watched him how he singled Clifford forth.

Methought he bore him in the thickest troop

As doth a lion in a herd of neat,

Or as a bear encompassed round with dogs,

Who having pinched a few and made them cry,

The rest stand all aloof and bark at him;

So fared our father with his enemies;

So fled his enemies my warlike father.

Methinks 'tis prize enough to be his son.

See how the morning opes her golden gates

And takes her farewell of the glorious sun.

How well resembles it the prime of youth,

Trimmed like a younker, prancing to his love!

Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?

Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun,

Not separated with the racking clouds

But severed in a pale clear-shining sky.

See, see, they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,

As if they vowed some league inviolable.

Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun;

In this, the heaven figures some event.

'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of.

I think it cites us, brother, to the field,

That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet,

Each one already blazing by our meeds,

Should notwithstanding join our lights together

And overshine the earth, as this the world.

Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear

Upon my target three fair shining suns.

Nay, bear three daughters: by your leave I speak it,

You love the breeder better than the male.

But what art thou whose heavy looks foretell

Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue?

Ah, one that was a woeful looker-on

Whenas the noble Duke of York was slain,

Your princely father and my loving lord.

O, speak no more, for I have heard too much!

Say how he died, for I will hear it all.

Environed he was with many foes,

And stood against them, as the hope of Troy

Against the Greeks that would have entered Troy.

But Hercules himself must yield to odds;

And many strokes, though with a little axe,

Hews down and fells the hardest-timbered oak.

By many hands your father was subdued,

But only slaughtered by the ireful arm

Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen,

Who crowned the gracious duke in high despite,

Laughed in his face; and when with grief he wept,

The ruthless queen gave him to dry his cheeks

A napkin steeped in the harmless blood

Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain.

And after many scorns, many foul taunts,

They took his head and on the gates of York

They set the same, and there it doth remain,

The saddest spectacle that e'er I viewed.

Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon,

Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay.

O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain

The flower of Europe for his chivalry;

And treacherously hast thou vanquished him,

For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee.

Now my soul's palace is become a prison;

Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body

Might in the ground be closed up in rest,

For never henceforth shall I joy again.

Never, O never, shall I see more joy!

I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture

Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart;

Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden,

For selfsame wind that I should speak withal

Is kindling coals that fires all my breast

And burns me up with flames that tears would

quench.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief:

Tears, then, for babes; blows and revenge for me.

Richard, I bear thy name. I'll venge thy death

Or die renowned by attempting it.

His name that valiant duke hath left with thee;

His dukedom and his chair with me is left.

Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird,

Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun;

For chair and dukedom, throne and

kingdom say;

Either that is thine or else thou wert not his.

How now, fair lords? What fare, what news abroad?

Great lord of Warwick, if we should recount

Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance

Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

The words would add more anguish than the wounds.

O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain.

O Warwick, Warwick, that Plantagenet

Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

Ten days ago I drowned these news in tears.

And now to add more measure to your woes,

I come to tell you things sith then befall'n.

After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,

Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp,

Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run,

Were brought me of your loss and his depart.

I, then in London, keeper of the King,

Mustered my soldiers, gathered flocks of friends,

Marched toward Saint Albans to intercept the

Queen,

Bearing the King in my behalf along;

For by my scouts I was advertised

That she was coming with a full intent

To dash our late decree in Parliament

Touching King Henry's oath and your succession.

Short tale to make, we at Saint Albans met,

Our battles joined, and both sides fiercely fought.

But whether 'twas the coldness of the King,

Who looked full gently on his warlike queen,

That robbed my soldiers of their heated spleen,

Or whether 'twas report of her success

Or more than common fear of Clifford's rigor,

Who thunders to his captives blood and death,

I cannot judge; but to conclude with truth,

Their weapons like to lightning came and went;

Our soldiers', like the night owl's lazy flight

Or like an idle thresher with a flail,

Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.

I cheered them up with justice of our cause,

With promise of high pay and great rewards,

But all in vain; they had no heart to fight,

And we, in them, no hope to win the day,

So that we fled: the King unto the Queen;

Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself

In haste, posthaste, are come to join with you;

For in the Marches here we heard you were,

Making another head to fight again.

Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick?

And when came George from Burgundy to England?

Some six miles off the Duke is with the soldiers,

And, for your brother, he was lately sent

From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,

With aid of soldiers to this needful war.

'Twas odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled.

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,

But ne'er till now his scandal of retire.

Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou hear?

For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine

Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head

And wring the awful scepter from his fist,

Were he as famous and as bold in war

As he is famed for mildness, peace, and prayer.

I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not.

'Tis love I bear thy glories make me speak.

But in this troublous time, what's to be done?

Shall we go throw away our coats of steel

And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,

Numb'ring our Ave Marys with our beads?

Or shall we on the helmets of our foes

Tell our devotion with revengeful arms?

If for the last, say Ay, and to it, lords.

Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out,

And therefore comes my brother Montague.

Attend me, lords: the proud insulting queen,

With Clifford and the haught Northumberland

And of their feather many more proud birds,

Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.

He swore consent to your succession,

His oath enrolled in the Parliament.

And now to London all the crew are gone

To frustrate both his oath and what beside

May make against the house of Lancaster.

Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong.

Now, if the help of Norfolk and myself,

With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,

Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure,

Will but amount to five and twenty thousand,

Why, via, to London will we march,

And once again bestride our foaming steeds,

And once again cry Charge! upon our foes,

But never once again turn back and fly.

Ay, now methinks I hear great Warwick speak.

Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day

That cries Retire! if Warwick bid him stay.

Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean,

And when thou fail'st--as God forbid the hour!--

Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forfend.

No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York;

The next degree is England's royal throne:

For King of England shalt thou be proclaimed

In every borough as we pass along,

And he that throws not up his cap for joy

Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head.

King Edward, valiant Richard, Montague,

Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,

But sound the trumpets and about our task.

Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel,

As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,

I come to pierce it or to give thee mine.

Then strike up drums! God and Saint George for us!

How now, what news?

The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,

The Queen is coming with a puissant host,

And craves your company for speedy counsel.

Why, then it sorts. Brave warriors, let's away!

Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York.

Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy

That sought to be encompassed with your crown.

Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?

Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack!

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.

Withhold revenge, dear God! 'Tis not my fault,

Nor wittingly have I infringed my vow.

My gracious liege, this too much lenity

And harmful pity must be laid aside.

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?

Not to the beast that would usurp their den.

Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick?

Not his that spoils her young before her face.

Who scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting?

Not he that sets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on,

And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.

Ambitious York did level at thy crown,

Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows.

He, but a duke, would have his son a king

And raise his issue like a loving sire;

Thou being a king, blest with a goodly son,

Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Which argued thee a most unloving father.

Unreasonable creatures feed their young;

And though man's face be fearful to their eyes,

Yet in protection of their tender ones,

Who hath not seen them, even with those wings

Which sometime they have used with fearful flight,

Make war with him that climbed unto their nest,

Offering their own lives in their young's defense?

For shame, my liege, make them your precedent.

Were it not pity that this goodly boy

Should lose his birthright by his father's fault,

And long hereafter say unto his child

What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,

My careless father fondly gave away?

Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy,

And let his manly face, which promiseth

Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own and leave thine own with him.

Full well hath Clifford played the orator,

Inferring arguments of mighty force.

But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear

That things ill got had ever bad success?

And happy always was it for that son

Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?

I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind,

And would my father had left me no more;

For all the rest is held at such a rate

As brings a thousandfold more care to keep

Than in possession any jot of pleasure.

Ah, cousin York, would thy best friends did know

How it doth grieve me that thy head is here.

My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are nigh,

And this soft courage makes your followers faint.

You promised knighthood to our forward son.

Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.--

Edward, kneel down.

Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight,

And learn this lesson: draw thy sword in right.

My gracious father, by your kingly leave,

I'll draw it as apparent to the crown

And in that quarrel use it to the death.

Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

Royal commanders, be in readiness,

For with a band of thirty thousand men

Comes Warwick backing of the Duke of York,

And in the towns as they do march along

Proclaims him king, and many fly to him.

Deraign your battle, for they are at hand.

I would your Highness would depart the field.

The Queen hath best success when you are absent.

Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune.

Why, that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay.

Be it with resolution, then, to fight.

My royal father, cheer these noble lords

And hearten those that fight in your defense.

Unsheathe your sword, good father; cry Saint

George!

Now, perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace

And set thy diadem upon my head,

Or bide the mortal fortune of the field?

Go rate thy minions, proud insulting boy.

Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms

Before thy sovereign and thy lawful king?

I am his king, and he should bow his knee.

I was adopted heir by his consent.

Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear,

You that are king, though he do wear the crown,

Have caused him, by new act of Parliament,

To blot out me and put his own son in.

And reason too:

Who should succeed the father but the son?

Are you there, butcher? O, I cannot speak!

Ay, crookback, here I stand to answer thee,

Or any he, the proudest of thy sort.

'Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not?

Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.

For God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight!

What sayst thou, Henry? Wilt thou yield the crown?

Why, how now, long-tongued Warwick, dare you

speak?

When you and I met at Saint Albans last,

Your legs did better service than your hands.

Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine.

You said so much before, and yet you fled.

'Twas not your valor, Clifford, drove me thence.

No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay.

Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.--

Break off the parley, for scarce I can refrain

The execution of my big-swoll'n heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer.

I slew thy father; call'st thou him a child?

Ay, like a dastard and a treacherous coward,

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland.

But ere sunset I'll make thee curse the deed.

Have done with words, my lords, and hear me

speak.

Defy them, then, or else hold close thy lips.

I prithee, give no limits to my tongue.

I am a king and privileged to speak.

My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here

Cannot be cured by words; therefore, be still.

Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.

By Him that made us all, I am resolved

That Clifford's manhood lies upon his tongue.

Say, Henry, shall I have my right or no?

A thousand men have broke their fasts today

That ne'er shall dine unless thou yield the crown.

If thou deny, their blood upon thy head,

For York in justice puts his armor on.

If that be right which Warwick says is right,

There is no wrong, but everything is right.

Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands,

For well I wot thou hast thy mother's tongue.

But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam,

But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,

Marked by the Destinies to be avoided,

As venom toads or lizards' dreadful stings.

Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,

Whose father bears the title of a king,

As if a channel should be called the sea,

Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art

extraught,

To let thy tongue detect thy baseborn heart?

A wisp of straw were worth a thousand crowns

To make this shameless callet know herself.--

Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,

Although thy husband may be Menelaus;

And ne'er was Agamemnon's brother wronged

By that false woman as this king by thee.

His father reveled in the heart of France,

And tamed the King, and made the Dauphin stoop;

And had he matched according to his state,

He might have kept that glory to this day.

But when he took a beggar to his bed

And graced thy poor sire with his bridal day,

Even then that sunshine brewed a shower for him

That washed his father's fortunes forth of France

And heaped sedition on his crown at home.

For what hath broached this tumult but thy pride?

Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept,

And we, in pity of the gentle king,

Had slipped our claim until another age.

But when we saw our sunshine made thy spring,

And that thy summer bred us no increase,

We set the axe to thy usurping root;

And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,

Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike,

We'll never leave till we have hewn thee down

Or bathed thy growing with our heated bloods.

And in this resolution, I defy thee,

Not willing any longer conference,

Since thou denied'st the gentle king to speak.--

Sound, trumpets! Let our bloody colors wave;

And either victory or else a grave!

Stay, Edward!

No, wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay.

These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.

Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,

I lay me down a little while to breathe,

For strokes received and many blows repaid

Have robbed my strong-knit sinews of their strength;

And spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile.

Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death,

For this world frowns and Edward's sun is clouded.

How now, my lord, what hap? What hope of good?

Our hap is loss, our hope but sad despair;

Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us.

What counsel give you? Whither shall we fly?

Bootless is flight; they follow us with wings,

And weak we are and cannot shun pursuit.

Ah, Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself?

Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,

Broached with the steely point of Clifford's lance,

And in the very pangs of death he cried,

Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,

Warwick, revenge! Brother, revenge my death!

So, underneath the belly of their steeds,

That stained their fetlocks in his smoking blood,

The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.

Then let the earth be drunken with our blood!

I'll kill my horse because I will not fly.

Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,

Wailing our losses whiles the foe doth rage,

And look upon, as if the tragedy

Were played in jest by counterfeiting actors?

Here on my knee I vow to God above

I'll never pause again, never stand still,

Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine

Or Fortune given me measure of revenge.

O Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine,

And in this vow do chain my soul to thine

And, ere my knee rise from the Earth's cold face,

I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to Thee,

Thou setter up and plucker down of kings,

Beseeching Thee, if with Thy will it stands

That to my foes this body must be prey,

Yet that Thy brazen gates of heaven may ope

And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.

Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,

Where'er it be, in heaven or in Earth.

Brother, give me thy hand.--And, gentle Warwick,

Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.

I that did never weep now melt with woe

That winter should cut off our springtime so.

Away, away! Once more, sweet lords, farewell.

Yet let us all together to our troops

And give them leave to fly that will not stay,

And call them pillars that will stand to us;

And, if we thrive, promise them such rewards

As victors wear at the Olympian Games.

This may plant courage in their quailing breasts,

For yet is hope of life and victory.

Forslow no longer; make we hence amain.

Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.

Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York,

And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge,

Wert thou environed with a brazen wall.

Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone.

This is the hand that stabbed thy father York,

And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland,

And here's the heart that triumphs in their death

And cheers these hands that slew thy sire and brother

To execute the like upon thyself.

And so, have at thee!

Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase,

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death.

This battle fares like to the morning's war,

When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day nor night.

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea

Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;

Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea

Forced to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;

Now one the better, then another best,

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

Yet neither conqueror nor conquered.

So is the equal poise of this fell war.

Here on this molehill will I sit me down.

To whom God will, there be the victory;

For Margaret my queen and Clifford too

Have chid me from the battle, swearing both

They prosper best of all when I am thence.

Would I were dead, if God's good will were so,

For what is in this world but grief and woe?

O God! Methinks it were a happy life

To be no better than a homely swain,

To sit upon a hill as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,

Thereby to see the minutes how they run:

How many makes the hour full complete,

How many hours brings about the day,

How many days will finish up the year,

How many years a mortal man may live.

When this is known, then to divide the times:

So many hours must I tend my flock,

So many hours must I take my rest,

So many hours must I contemplate,

So many hours must I sport myself,

So many days my ewes have been with young,

So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece;

So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,

Passed over to the end they were created,

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this! How sweet, how lovely!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds looking on their silly sheep

Than doth a rich embroidered canopy

To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?

O yes, it doth, a thousandfold it doth.

And to conclude, the shepherd's homely curds,

His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince's delicates--

His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

His body couched in a curious bed--

When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man, whom hand to hand I slew in fight,

May be possessed with some store of crowns,

And I, that haply take them from him now,

May yet ere night yield both my life and them

To some man else, as this dead man doth me.

Who's this? O God! It is my father's face,

Whom in this conflict I unwares have killed.

O heavy times, begetting such events!

From London by the King was I pressed forth.

My father, being the Earl of Warwick's man,

Came on the part of York, pressed by his master.

And I, who at his hands received my life,

Have by my hands of life bereaved him.

Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did;

And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.

My tears shall wipe away these bloody marks,

And no more words till they have flowed their fill.

O piteous spectacle! O bloody times!

Whiles lions war and battle for their dens,

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.

Weep, wretched man. I'll aid thee tear for tear,

And let our hearts and eyes, like civil war,

Be blind with tears and break, o'ercharged with grief.

Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me,

Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold,

For I have bought it with an hundred blows.

But let me see: is this our foeman's face?

Ah, no, no, no, it is mine only son!

Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee,

Throw up thine eye! See, see, what showers arise,

Blown with the windy tempest of my heart

Upon thy wounds, that kills mine eye and heart!

O, pity God this miserable age!

What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,

Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural

This deadly quarrel daily doth beget!

O, boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,

And hath bereft thee of thy life too late!

Woe above woe, grief more than common grief!

O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!

O pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity!

The red rose and the white are on his face,

The fatal colors of our striving houses;

The one his purple blood right well resembles,

The other his pale cheeks methinks presenteth.

Wither one rose and let the other flourish;

If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.

How will my mother for a father's death

Take on with me and ne'er be satisfied!

How will my wife for slaughter of my son

Shed seas of tears and ne'er be satisfied!

How will the country for these woeful chances

Misthink the King and not be satisfied!

Was ever son so rued a father's death?

Was ever father so bemoaned his son?

Was ever king so grieved for subjects' woe?

Much is your sorrow, mine ten times so much.

I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.

These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet;

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulcher,

For from my heart thine image ne'er shall go.

My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell;

And so obsequious will thy father be

E'en for the loss of thee, having no more,

As Priam was for all his valiant sons.

I'll bear thee hence, and let them fight that will,

For I have murdered where I should not kill.

Sad-hearted men, much overgone with care,

Here sits a king more woeful than you are.

Fly, father, fly, for all your friends are fled,

And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.

Away, for Death doth hold us in pursuit.

Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain.

Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds

Having the fearful flying hare in sight,

With fiery eyes sparkling for very wrath

And bloody steel grasped in their ireful hands,

Are at our backs, and therefore hence amain.

Away, for Vengeance comes along with them.

Nay, stay not to expostulate, make speed;

Or else come after; I'll away before.

Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter;

Not that I fear to stay, but love to go

Whither the Queen intends. Forward, away!

Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,

Which whiles it lasted gave King Henry light.

O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow

More than my body's parting with my soul!

My love and fear glued many friends to thee;

And now I fall, thy tough commixtures melts,

Impairing Henry, strength'ning misproud York;

And whither fly the gnats but to the sun?

And who shines now but Henry's enemies?

O Phoebus, hadst thou never given consent

That Phaeton should check thy fiery steeds,

Thy burning car never had scorched the Earth!

And Henry, hadst thou swayed as kings should do,

Or as thy father and his father did,

Giving no ground unto the house of York,

They never then had sprung like summer flies;

I and ten thousand in this luckless realm

Had left no mourning widows for our death,

And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.

For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air?

And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity?

Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;

No way to fly, no strength to hold out flight.

The foe is merciless and will not pity,

For at their hands I have deserved no pity.

The air hath got into my deadly wounds,

And much effuse of blood doth make me faint.

Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest.

I stabbed your fathers' bosoms; split my breast.

Now breathe we, lords. Good fortune bids us pause

And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.

Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen

That led calm Henry, though he were a king,

As doth a sail filled with a fretting gust

Command an argosy to stem the waves.

But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?

No, 'tis impossible he should escape,

For, though before his face I speak the words,

Your brother Richard marked him for the grave,

And wheresoe'er he is, he's surely dead.

Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave?

A deadly groan, like life and death's departing.

See who it is; and, now the battle's ended,

If friend or foe, let him be gently used.

Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford,

Who not contented that he lopped the branch

In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,

But set his murd'ring knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,

I mean our princely father, Duke of York.

From off the gates of York fetch down the head,

Your father's head, which Clifford placed there;

Instead whereof let this supply the room.

Measure for measure must be answered.

Bring forth that fatal screech owl to our house

That nothing sung but death to us and ours;

Now death shall stop his dismal threat'ning sound,

And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.

I think his understanding is bereft.--

Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to

thee?--

Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of life,

And he nor sees nor hears us what we say.

O, would he did--and so, perhaps, he doth!

'Tis but his policy to counterfeit,

Because he would avoid such bitter taunts

Which in the time of death he gave our father.

If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words.

Clifford, ask mercy and obtain no grace.

Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.

Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults.

While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.

Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.

Thou pitied'st Rutland; I will pity thee.

Where's Captain Margaret to fence you now?

They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou wast wont.

What, not an oath? Nay, then, the world goes hard

When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath.

I know by that he's dead; and, by my soul,

If this right hand would buy but two hours' life

That I in all despite might rail at him,

This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing

blood

Stifle the villain whose unstaunched thirst

York and young Rutland could not satisfy.

Ay, but he's dead. Off with the traitor's head,

And rear it in the place your father's stands.

And now to London with triumphant march,

There to be crowned England's royal king,

From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France

And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen;

So shalt thou sinew both these lands together,

And having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread

The scattered foe that hopes to rise again;

For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,

Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears.

First will I see the coronation,

And then to Brittany I'll cross the sea

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord.

Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;

For in thy shoulder do I build my seat,

And never will I undertake the thing

Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.--

Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloucester,

And George, of Clarence. Warwick as ourself

Shall do and undo as him pleaseth best.

Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of Gloucester,

For Gloucester's dukedom is too ominous.

Tut, that's a foolish observation.

Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London,

To see these honors in possession.

Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves,

For through this laund anon the deer will come;

And in this covert will we make our stand,

Culling the principal of all the deer.

I'll stay above the hill, so both may shoot.

That cannot be. The noise of thy crossbow

Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost.

Here stand we both, and aim we at the best.

And for the time shall not seem tedious,

I'll tell thee what befell me on a day

In this self place where now we mean to stand.

Here comes a man; let's stay till he be past.

From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure love,

To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.

No, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine!

Thy place is filled, thy scepter wrung from thee,

Thy balm washed off wherewith thou wast anointed.

No bending knee will call thee Caesar now,

No humble suitors press to speak for right,

No, not a man comes for redress of thee;

For how can I help them an not myself?

Ay, here's a deer whose skin's a keeper's fee.

This is the quondam king. Let's seize upon him.

Let me embrace the sour adversaries,

For wise men say it is the wisest course.

Why linger we? Let us lay hands upon him.

Forbear awhile; we'll hear a little more.

My queen and son are gone to France for aid,

And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick

Is thither gone to crave the French king's sister

To wife for Edward. If this news be true,

Poor queen and son, your labor is but lost,

For Warwick is a subtle orator,

And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words.

By this account, then, Margaret may win him,

For she's a woman to be pitied much.

Her sighs will make a batt'ry in his breast,

Her tears will pierce into a marble heart.

The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn,

And Nero will be tainted with remorse

To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears.

Ay, but she's come to beg, Warwick to give;

She on his left side craving aid for Henry;

He on his right asking a wife for Edward.

She weeps and says her Henry is deposed;

He smiles and says his Edward is installed;

That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more,

Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong,

Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,

And in conclusion wins the King from her

With promise of his sister and what else

To strengthen and support King Edward's place.

O Margaret, thus 'twill be, and thou, poor soul,

Art then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorn.

Say, what art thou that talk'st of kings and queens?

More than I seem, and less than I was born to:

A man at least, for less I should not be;

And men may talk of kings, and why not I?

Ay, but thou talk'st as if thou wert a king.

Why, so I am in mind, and that's enough.

But if thou be a king, where is thy crown?

My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen. My crown is called content;

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

Well, if you be a king crowned with content,

Your crown content and you must be contented

To go along with us. For, as we think,

You are the king King Edward hath deposed;

And we his subjects sworn in all allegiance

Will apprehend you as his enemy.

But did you never swear and break an oath?

No, never such an oath, nor will not now.

Where did you dwell when I was King of England?

Here in this country, where we now remain.

I was anointed king at nine months old.

My father and my grandfather were kings,

And you were sworn true subjects unto me.

And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths?

No, for we were subjects but while you were king.

Why, am I dead? Do I not breathe a man?

Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear.

Look as I blow this feather from my face

And as the air blows it to me again,

Obeying with my wind when I do blow

And yielding to another when it blows,

Commanded always by the greater gust,

Such is the lightness of you common men.

But do not break your oaths, for of that sin

My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty.

Go where you will, the King shall be commanded,

And be you kings: command, and I'll obey.

We are true subjects to the King, King Edward.

So would you be again to Henry

If he were seated as King Edward is.

We charge you in God's name and the King's

To go with us unto the officers.

In God's name, lead. Your king's name be obeyed,

And what God will, that let your king perform.

And what he will, I humbly yield unto.

Brother of Gloucester, at Saint Albans field

This lady's husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain,

His land then seized on by the conqueror.

Her suit is now to repossess those lands,

Which we in justice cannot well deny,

Because in quarrel of the house of York

The worthy gentleman did lose his life.

Your Highness shall do well to grant her suit;

It were dishonor to deny it her.

It were no less, but yet I'll make a pause.

Yea, is it so?

I see the lady hath a thing to grant

Before the King will grant her humble suit.

He knows the game; how true he keeps the wind!

Silence!

Widow, we will consider of your suit,

And come some other time to know our mind.

Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay.

May it please your Highness to resolve me now,

And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me.

Ay, widow? Then I'll warrant you all your lands,

An if what pleases him shall pleasure you.

Fight closer, or, good faith, you'll catch a blow.

I fear her not, unless she chance to fall.

God forbid that, for he'll take vantages.

How many children hast thou, widow? Tell me.

I think he means to beg a child of her.

Nay, then, whip me; he'll rather give her two.

Three, my most gracious lord.

You shall have four if you'll be ruled by him.

'Twere pity they should lose their father's lands.

Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then.

Lords, give us leave. I'll try this widow's wit.

Ay, good leave have you, for you will have leave

Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.

Now tell me, madam, do you love your children?

Ay, full as dearly as I love myself.

And would you not do much to do them good?

To do them good I would sustain some harm.

Then get your husband's lands to do them good.

Therefore I came unto your Majesty.

I'll tell you how these lands are to be got.

So shall you bind me to your Highness' service.

What service wilt thou do me if I give them?

What you command that rests in me to do.

But you will take exceptions to my boon.

No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it.

Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask.

Why, then, I will do what your Grace commands.

He plies her hard, and much rain wears the marble.

As red as fire! Nay, then, her wax must melt.

Why stops my lord? Shall I not hear my task?

An easy task; 'tis but to love a king.

That's soon performed because I am a subject.

Why, then, thy husband's lands I freely give thee.

I take my leave with many thousand thanks.

The match is made; she seals it with a cursy.

But stay thee; 'tis the fruits of love I mean.

The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege.

Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.

What love, think'st thou, I sue so much to get?

My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers,

That love which virtue begs and virtue grants.

No, by my troth, I did not mean such love.

Why, then, you mean not as I thought you did.

But now you partly may perceive my mind.

My mind will never grant what I perceive

Your Highness aims at, if I aim aright.

To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee.

To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison.

Why, then, thou shalt not have thy husband's lands.

Why, then, mine honesty shall be my dower,

For by that loss I will not purchase them.

Therein thou wrong'st thy children mightily.

Herein your Highness wrongs both them and me.

But, mighty lord, this merry inclination

Accords not with the sadness of my suit.

Please you dismiss me either with ay or no.

Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request;

No, if thou dost say no to my demand.

Then no, my lord; my suit is at an end.

The widow likes him not; she knits her brows.

He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom.

Her looks doth argue her replete with modesty;

Her words doth show her wit incomparable;

All her perfections challenge sovereignty.

One way or other, she is for a king,

And she shall be my love or else my queen.--

Say that King Edward take thee for his queen?

'Tis better said than done, my gracious lord.

I am a subject fit to jest withal,

But far unfit to be a sovereign.

Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee

I speak no more than what my soul intends,

And that is, to enjoy thee for my love.

And that is more than I will yield unto.

I know I am too mean to be your queen

And yet too good to be your concubine.

You cavil, widow; I did mean my queen.

'Twill grieve your Grace my sons should call you

father.

No more than when my daughters call thee mother.

Thou art a widow and thou hast some children,

And, by God's mother, I, being but a bachelor,

Have other some. Why, 'tis a happy thing

To be the father unto many sons.

Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen.

The ghostly father now hath done his shrift.

When he was made a shriver, 'twas for shift.

Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had.

The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad.

You'd think it strange if I should marry her.

To who, my lord?

Why, Clarence, to myself.

That would be ten days' wonder at the least.

That's a day longer than a wonder lasts.

By so much is the wonder in extremes.

Well, jest on, brothers. I can tell you both

Her suit is granted for her husband's lands.

My gracious lord, Henry, your foe, is taken

And brought your prisoner to your palace gate.

See that he be conveyed unto the Tower.

And go we, brothers, to the man that took him,

To question of his apprehension.--

Widow, go you along.--Lords, use her honorably.

Ay, Edward will use women honorably!

Would he were wasted--marrow, bones, and all--

That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring

To cross me from the golden time I look for.

And yet, between my soul's desire and me,

The lustful Edward's title buried,

Is Clarence, Henry, and his son, young Edward,

And all the unlooked-for issue of their bodies

To take their rooms ere I can place myself.

A cold premeditation for my purpose.

Why, then, I do but dream on sovereignty

Like one that stands upon a promontory

And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,

Wishing his foot were equal with his eye,

And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,

Saying he'll lade it dry to have his way.

So do I wish the crown, being so far off,

And so I chide the means that keeps me from it,

And so, I say, I'll cut the causes off,

Flattering me with impossibilities.

My eye's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much,

Unless my hand and strength could equal them.

Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard,

What other pleasure can the world afford?

I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap

And deck my body in gay ornaments,

And 'witch sweet ladies with my words and looks.

O miserable thought, and more unlikely

Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns!

Why, Love forswore me in my mother's womb,

And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,

She did corrupt frail Nature with some bribe

To shrink mine arm up like a withered shrub;

To make an envious mountain on my back,

Where sits Deformity to mock my body;

To shape my legs of an unequal size;

To disproportion me in every part,

Like to a chaos, or an unlicked bear-whelp,

That carries no impression like the dam.

And am I then a man to be beloved?

O monstrous fault to harbor such a thought!

Then, since this Earth affords no joy to me

But to command, to check, to o'erbear such

As are of better person than myself,

I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown,

And, whiles I live, t' account this world but hell

Until my misshaped trunk that bears this head

Be round impaled with a glorious crown.

And yet I know not how to get the crown,

For many lives stand between me and home;

And I, like one lost in a thorny wood,

That rents the thorns and is rent with the thorns,

Seeking a way and straying from the way,

Not knowing how to find the open air,

But toiling desperately to find it out,

Torment myself to catch the English crown.

And from that torment I will free myself

Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.

Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile,

And cry Content to that which grieves my heart,

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,

And frame my face to all occasions.

I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;

I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk;

I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,

Deceive more slyly than Ulysses could,

And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.

I can add colors to the chameleon,

Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,

And set the murderous Machiavel to school.

Can I do this and cannot get a crown?

Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.

Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret,

Sit down with us. It ill befits thy state

And birth that thou shouldst stand while Lewis

doth sit.

No, mighty King of France. Now Margaret

Must strike her sail and learn awhile to serve

Where kings command. I was, I must confess,

Great Albion's queen in former golden days,

But now mischance hath trod my title down

And with dishonor laid me on the ground,

Where I must take like seat unto my fortune

And to my humble seat conform myself.

Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep

despair?

From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears

And stops my tongue, while heart is drowned in cares.

Whate'er it be, be thou still like thyself,

And sit thee by our side.

Yield not thy neck

To Fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind

Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief.

It shall be eased if France can yield relief.

Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts

And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak.

Now therefore be it known to noble Lewis

That Henry, sole possessor of my love,

Is, of a king, become a banished man

And forced to live in Scotland a forlorn;

While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York,

Usurps the regal title and the seat

Of England's true-anointed lawful king.

This is the cause that I, poor Margaret,

With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry's heir,

Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid;

And if thou fail us, all our hope is done.

Scotland hath will to help but cannot help;

Our people and our peers are both misled,

Our treasure seized, our soldiers put to flight,

And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.

Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm

While we bethink a means to break it off.

The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe.

The more I stay, the more I'll succor thee.

O, but impatience waiteth on true sorrow.

And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow.

What's he approacheth boldly to our presence?

Our Earl of Warwick, Edward's greatest friend.

Welcome, brave Warwick. What brings thee to France?

Ay, now begins a second storm to rise,

For this is he that moves both wind and tide.

From worthy Edward, King of Albion,

My lord and sovereign and thy vowed friend,

I come in kindness and unfeigned love,

First, to do greetings to thy royal person,

And then to crave a league of amity,

And, lastly, to confirm that amity

With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant

That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister,

To England's king in lawful marriage.

If that go forward, Henry's hope is done.

And, gracious madam, in our king's behalf,

I am commanded, with your leave and favor,

Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue

To tell the passion of my sovereign's heart,

Where fame, late ent'ring at his heedful ears,

Hath placed thy beauty's image and thy virtue.

King Lewis and Lady Bona, hear me speak

Before you answer Warwick. His demand

Springs not from Edward's well-meant honest love,

But from deceit, bred by necessity;

For how can tyrants safely govern home

Unless abroad they purchase great alliance?

To prove him tyrant, this reason may suffice:

That Henry liveth still; but were he dead,

Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry's son.

Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and

marriage

Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonor;

For though usurpers sway the rule awhile,

Yet heav'ns are just, and time suppresseth wrongs.

Injurious Margaret!

And why not Queen?

Because thy father Henry did usurp,

And thou no more art prince than she is queen.

Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt,

Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain;

And after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,

Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest;

And after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,

Who by his prowess conquered all France.

From these our Henry lineally descends.

Oxford, how haps it in this smooth discourse

You told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost

All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten.

Methinks these peers of France should smile at that.

But, for the rest: you tell a pedigree

Of threescore and two years, a silly time

To make prescription for a kingdom's worth.

Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege,

Whom thou obeyed'st thirty and six years,

And not bewray thy treason with a blush?

Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right,

Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree?

For shame, leave Henry, and call Edward king.

Call him my king, by whose injurious doom

My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere,

Was done to death? And more than so, my father,

Even in the downfall of his mellowed years,

When nature brought him to the door of death?

No, Warwick, no. While life upholds this arm,

This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.

And I the house of York.

Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and Oxford,

Vouchsafe, at our request, to stand aside

While I use further conference with Warwick.

Heavens grant that Warwick's words bewitch him

not.

Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience,

Is Edward your true king? For I were loath

To link with him that were not lawful chosen.

Thereon I pawn my credit and mine honor.

But is he gracious in the people's eye?

The more that Henry was unfortunate.

Then further, all dissembling set aside,

Tell me for truth the measure of his love

Unto our sister Bona.

Such it seems

As may beseem a monarch like himself.

Myself have often heard him say and swear

That this his love was an eternal plant,

Whereof the root was fixed in virtue's ground,

The leaves and fruit maintained with beauty's sun,

Exempt from envy but not from disdain,

Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain.

Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve.

Your grant or your denial shall be mine.

Yet I confess that often ere this

day,

When I have heard your king's desert recounted,

Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire.

Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward's.

And now forthwith shall articles be drawn

Touching the jointure that your king must make,

Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised.--

Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness

That Bona shall be wife to the English king.

To Edward, but not to the English king.

Deceitful Warwick, it was thy device

By this alliance to make void my suit.

Before thy coming, Lewis was Henry's friend.

And still is friend to him and Margaret.

But if your title to the crown be weak,

As may appear by Edward's good success,

Then 'tis but reason that I be released

From giving aid which late I promised.

Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand

That your estate requires and mine can yield.

Henry now lives in Scotland at his ease,

Where, having nothing, nothing can he lose.--

And as for you yourself, our quondam queen,

You have a father able to maintain you,

And better 'twere you troubled him than France.

Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick,

Proud setter-up and puller-down of kings!

I will not hence till with my talk and tears,

Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold

Thy sly conveyance and thy lord's false love,

For both of you are birds of selfsame feather.

Warwick, this is some post to us or thee.

My lord ambassador, these letters are for you,

Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague.

These from our king unto your Majesty.

And, madam, these for you--from

whom, I know not.

I like it well that our fair queen and mistress

Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his.

Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled.

I hope all's for the best.

Warwick, what are thy news? And yours, fair queen?

Mine, such as fill my heart with unhoped joys.

Mine, full of sorrow and heart's discontent.

What, has your king married the Lady Grey,

And now, to soothe your forgery and his,

Sends me a paper to persuade me patience?

Is this th' alliance that he seeks with France?

Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner?

I told your Majesty as much before.

This proveth Edward's love and Warwick's honesty.

King Lewis, I here protest in sight of heaven

And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss,

That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward's--

No more my king, for he dishonors me,

But most himself, if he could see his shame.

Did I forget that by the house of York

My father came untimely to his death?

Did I let pass th' abuse done to my niece?

Did I impale him with the regal crown?

Did I put Henry from his native right?

And am I guerdoned at the last with shame?

Shame on himself, for my desert is honor!

And to repair my honor lost for him,

I here renounce him and return to Henry.

My noble queen, let former grudges pass,

And henceforth I am thy true servitor.

I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona

And replant Henry in his former state.

Warwick, these words have turned my hate to love,

And I forgive and quite forget old faults,

And joy that thou becom'st King Henry's friend.

So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,

That if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us

With some few bands of chosen soldiers,

I'll undertake to land them on our coast

And force the tyrant from his seat by war.

'Tis not his new-made bride shall succor him.

And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me,

He's very likely now to fall from him

For matching more for wanton lust than honor,

Or than for strength and safety of our country.

Dear brother, how shall Bona be revenged

But by thy help to this distressed queen?

Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live

Unless thou rescue him from foul despair?

My quarrel and this English queen's are one.

And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours.

And mine with hers and thine and Margaret's.

Therefore at last I firmly am resolved

You shall have aid.

Let me give humble thanks for all, at once.

Then, England's messenger, return in post,

And tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over maskers

To revel it with him and his new bride.

Thou seest what's passed; go fear thy king withal.

Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly,

I wear the willow garland for his sake.

Tell him my mourning weeds are laid aside

And I am ready to put armor on.

Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,

And therefore I'll uncrown him ere 't be long.

There's thy reward.

Be gone.

But, Warwick,

Thou and Oxford with five thousand men

Shall cross the seas and bid false Edward battle;

And as occasion serves, this noble queen

And prince shall follow with a fresh supply.

Yet ere thou go, but answer me one doubt:

What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty?

This shall assure my constant loyalty:

That if our queen and this young prince agree,

I'll join mine eldest daughter, and my joy,

To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands.

Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion.

Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous.

Therefore, delay not; give thy hand to Warwick,

And with thy hand, thy faith irrevocable,

That only Warwick's daughter shall be thine.

Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it,

And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand.

Why stay we now? These soldiers shall be levied,

And thou, Lord Bourbon, our High Admiral,

Shall waft them over with our royal fleet.

I long till Edward fall by war's mischance

For mocking marriage with a dame of France.

I came from Edward as ambassador,

But I return his sworn and mortal foe.

Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me,

But dreadful war shall answer his demand.

Had he none else to make a stale but me?

Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.

I was the chief that raised him to the crown,

And I'll be chief to bring him down again:

Not that I pity Henry's misery,

But seek revenge on Edward's mockery.

Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you

Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey?

Hath not our brother made a worthy choice?

Alas, you know 'tis far from hence to France.

How could he stay till Warwick made return?

My lords, forbear this talk. Here comes the King.

And his well-chosen bride.

I mind to tell him plainly what I think.

Now, brother of Clarence, how like you our choice,

That you stand pensive, as half malcontent?

As well as Lewis of France or the Earl of Warwick,

Which are so weak of courage and in judgment

That they'll take no offense at our abuse.

Suppose they take offense without a cause,

They are but Lewis and Warwick; I am Edward,

Your king and Warwick's, and must have my will.

And shall have your will because our king.

Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well.

Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too?

Not I.

No, God forbid that I should wish them severed

Whom God hath joined together. Ay, and 'twere pity

To sunder them that yoke so well together.

Setting your scorns and your mislike aside,

Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey

Should not become my wife and England's queen?

And you too, Somerset and Montague,

Speak freely what you think.

Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis

Becomes your enemy for mocking him

About the marriage of the Lady Bona.

And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge,

Is now dishonored by this new marriage.

What if both Lewis and Warwick be appeased

By such invention as I can devise?

Yet to have joined with France in such alliance

Would more have strengthened this our

commonwealth

'Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred marriage.

Why, knows not Montague that of itself

England is safe, if true within itself?

But the safer when 'tis backed with France.

'Tis better using France than trusting France.

Let us be backed with God and with the seas

Which He hath giv'n for fence impregnable,

And with their helps only defend ourselves.

In them and in ourselves our safety lies.

For this one speech, Lord Hastings well deserves

To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford.

Ay, what of that? It was my will and grant,

And for this once my will shall stand for law.

And yet methinks your Grace hath not done well

To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales

Unto the brother of your loving bride.

She better would have fitted me or Clarence;

But in your bride you bury brotherhood.

Or else you would not have bestowed the heir

Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife's son,

And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.

Alas, poor Clarence, is it for a wife

That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee.

In choosing for yourself you showed your judgment,

Which, being shallow, you shall give me leave

To play the broker in mine own behalf.

And to that end, I shortly mind to leave you.

Leave me or tarry, Edward will be king

And not be tied unto his brother's will.

My lords, before it pleased his Majesty

To raise my state to title of a queen,

Do me but right and you must all confess

That I was not ignoble of descent,

And meaner than myself have had like fortune.

But as this title honors me and mine,

So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing,

Doth cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.

My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns.

What danger or what sorrow can befall thee

So long as Edward is thy constant friend

And their true sovereign, whom they must obey?

Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too,

Unless they seek for hatred at my hands;

Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,

And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.

I hear, yet say not much, but think the more.

Now, messenger, what letters or what news from

France?

My sovereign liege, no letters and few words

But such as I without your special pardon

Dare not relate.

Go to, we pardon thee. Therefore, in brief,

Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them.

What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters?

At my depart, these were his very words:

Go tell false Edward, the supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over maskers

To revel it with him and his new bride.

Is Lewis so brave? Belike he thinks me Henry.

But what said Lady Bona to my marriage?

These were her words, uttered with mild disdain:

Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly,

I'll wear the willow garland for his sake.

I blame not her; she could say little less;

She had the wrong. But what said Henry's queen?

For I have heard that she was there in place.

Tell him, quoth she, my mourning weeds are

done,

And I am ready to put armor on.

Belike she minds to play the Amazon.

But what said Warwick to these injuries?

He, more incensed against your Majesty

Than all the rest, discharged me with these words:

Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong,

And therefore I'll uncrown him ere 't be long.

Ha! Durst the traitor breathe out so proud words?

Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarned.

They shall have wars and pay for their presumption.

But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret?

Ay, gracious sovereign, they are so linked in

friendship

That young Prince Edward marries Warwick's

daughter.

Belike the elder; Clarence will have the younger.--

Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast,

For I will hence to Warwick's other daughter,

That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage

I may not prove inferior to yourself.

You that love me and Warwick, follow me.

Not I. My thoughts aim at a further matter:

I stay not for the love of Edward, but the crown.

Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick?

Yet am I armed against the worst can happen,

And haste is needful in this desp'rate case.

Pembroke and Stafford, you in our behalf

Go levy men and make prepare for war.

They are already, or quickly will be, landed.

Myself in person will straight follow you.

But ere I go, Hastings and Montague,

Resolve my doubt: you twain, of all the rest,

Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance.

Tell me if you love Warwick more than me.

If it be so, then both depart to him.

I rather wish you foes than hollow friends.

But if you mind to hold your true obedience,

Give me assurance with some friendly vow,

That I may never have you in suspect.

So God help Montague as he proves true!

And Hastings as he favors Edward's cause!

Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us?

Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.

Why, so. Then am I sure of victory.

Now therefore let us hence and lose no hour

Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power.

Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well.

The common people by numbers swarm to us.

But see where Somerset and Clarence comes.--

Speak suddenly, my lords: are we all friends?

Fear not that, my lord.

Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick,

And welcome, Somerset. I hold it cowardice

To rest mistrustful where a noble heart

Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love;

Else might I think that Clarence, Edward's brother,

Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings.

But welcome, sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be

thine.

And now, what rests but, in night's coverture

Thy brother being carelessly encamped,

His soldiers lurking in the town about,

And but attended by a simple guard,

We may surprise and take him at our pleasure?

Our scouts have found the adventure very easy;

That, as Ulysses and stout Diomed

With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus' tents

And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds,

So we, well covered with the night's black mantle,

At unawares may beat down Edward's guard

And seize himself. I say not slaughter him,

For I intend but only to surprise him.

You that will follow me to this attempt,

Applaud the name of Henry with your leader.

Why then, let's on our way in silent sort.

For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!

Come on, my masters, each man take his stand.

The King by this is set him down to sleep.

What, will he not to bed?

Why, no, for he hath made a solemn vow

Never to lie and take his natural rest

Till Warwick or himself be quite suppressed.

Tomorrow, then, belike shall be the day,

If Warwick be so near as men report.

But say, I pray, what nobleman is that

That with the King here resteth in his tent?

'Tis the Lord Hastings, the King's chiefest friend.

O, is it so? But why commands the King

That his chief followers lodge in towns about him,

While he himself keeps in the cold field?

'Tis the more honor, because more dangerous.

Ay, but give me worship and quietness;

I like it better than a dangerous honor.

If Warwick knew in what estate he stands,

'Tis to be doubted he would waken him.

Unless our halberds did shut up his passage.

Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent

But to defend his person from night foes?

This is his tent, and see where stand his guard.

Courage, my masters. Honor, now or never!

But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.

Who goes there?

Stay, or thou diest!

What are they that fly there?

Richard and Hastings.

Let them go. Here is the Duke.

The Duke?

Why, Warwick, when we parted, thou call'dst me king.

Ay, but the case is altered.

When you disgraced me in my embassade,

Then I degraded you from being king

And come now to create you Duke of York.

Alas, how should you govern any kingdom

That know not how to use ambassadors,

Nor how to be contented with one wife,

Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,

Nor how to study for the people's welfare,

Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies?

Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too?

Nay, then, I see that Edward needs must down.

Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance,

Of thee thyself and all thy complices,

Edward will always bear himself as king.

Though Fortune's malice overthrow my state,

My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.

Then for his mind be Edward England's king,

But Henry now shall wear the English crown

And be true king indeed, thou but the shadow.--

My lord of Somerset, at my request,

See that forthwith Duke Edward be conveyed

Unto my brother, Archbishop of York.

When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows,

I'll follow you and tell what answer

Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him.--

Now for awhile farewell, good Duke of York.

What Fates impose, that men must needs abide;

It boots not to resist both wind and tide.

What now remains, my lords, for us to do

But march to London with our soldiers?

Ay, that's the first thing that we have to do,

To free King Henry from imprisonment

And see him seated in the regal throne.

Madam, what makes you in this sudden change?

Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn

What late misfortune is befall'n King Edward?

What, loss of some pitched battle against Warwick?

No, but the loss of his own royal person.

Then is my sovereign slain?

Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner,

Either betrayed by falsehood of his guard

Or by his foe surprised at unawares;

And, as I further have to understand,

Is new committed to the Bishop of York,

Fell Warwick's brother and by that our foe.

These news I must confess are full of grief;

Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may.

Warwick may lose that now hath won the day.

Till then fair hope must hinder life's decay;

And I the rather wean me from despair

For love of Edward's offspring in my womb.

This is it that makes me bridle passion

And bear with mildness my misfortune's cross.

Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear

And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs,

Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown

King Edward's fruit, true heir to th' English crown.

But, madam, where is Warwick then become?

I am informed that he comes towards London

To set the crown once more on Henry's head.

Guess thou the rest: King Edward's friends must

down.

But to prevent the tyrant's violence--

For trust not him that hath once broken faith--

I'll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary

To save at least the heir of Edward's right.

There shall I rest secure from force and fraud.

Come, therefore, let us fly while we may fly.

If Warwick take us, we are sure to die.

Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley,

Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither

Into this chiefest thicket of the park.

Thus stands the case: you know our king, my brother,

Is prisoner to the Bishop here, at whose hands

He hath good usage and great liberty,

And, often but attended with weak guard,

Comes hunting this way to disport himself.

I have advertised him by secret means

That, if about this hour he make this way

Under the color of his usual game,

He shall here find his friends with horse and men

To set him free from his captivity.

This way, my lord, for this way lies the game.

Nay, this way, man. See where the huntsmen stand.--

Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord Hastings, and the

rest,

Stand you thus close to steal the Bishop's deer?

Brother, the time and case requireth haste.

Your horse stands ready at the park corner.

But whither shall we then?

To Lynn, my lord, and shipped from thence

to Flanders.

Well guessed, believe me, for that was my meaning.

Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.

But wherefore stay we? 'Tis no time to talk.

Huntsman, what sayst thou? Wilt thou go along?

Better do so than tarry and be hanged.

Come then, away! Let's ha' no more ado.

Bishop, farewell; shield thee from Warwick's frown,

And pray that I may repossess the crown.

Master lieutenant, now that God and friends

Have shaken Edward from the regal seat

And turned my captive state to liberty,

My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys,

At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

Subjects may challenge nothing of their sov'reigns,

But, if an humble prayer may prevail,

I then crave pardon of your Majesty.

For what, lieutenant? For well using me?

Nay, be thou sure I'll well requite thy kindness,

For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure,

Ay, such a pleasure as encaged birds

Conceive when, after many moody thoughts,

At last by notes of household harmony

They quite forget their loss of liberty.--

But, Warwick, after God thou sett'st me free,

And chiefly, therefore, I thank God and thee.

He was the author, thou the instrument.

Therefore, that I may conquer Fortune's spite

By living low where Fortune cannot hurt me,

And that the people of this blessed land

May not be punished with my thwarting stars,

Warwick, although my head still wear the crown,

I here resign my government to thee,

For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.

Your Grace hath still been famed for virtuous

And now may seem as wise as virtuous

By spying and avoiding Fortune's malice,

For few men rightly temper with the stars.

Yet, in this one thing let me blame your Grace:

For choosing me when Clarence is in place.

No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the sway,

To whom the heav'ns in thy nativity

Adjudged an olive branch and laurel crown

As likely to be blest in peace and war;

And therefore I yield thee my free consent.

And I choose Clarence only for Protector.

Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands.

Now join your hands, and with your hands your

hearts,

That no dissension hinder government.

I make you both Protectors of this land,

While I myself will lead a private life

And in devotion spend my latter days,

To sin's rebuke and my Creator's praise.

What answers Clarence to his sovereign's will?

That he consents, if Warwick yield consent,

For on thy fortune I repose myself.

Why, then, though loath, yet must I be content.

We'll yoke together like a double shadow

To Henry's body, and supply his place--

I mean, in bearing weight of government--

While he enjoys the honor and his ease.

And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful

Forthwith that Edward be pronounced a traitor

And all his lands and goods be confiscate.

What else? And that succession be determined.

Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part.

But with the first of all your chief affairs

Let me entreat--for I command no more--

That Margaret your queen and my son Edward

Be sent for, to return from France with speed,

For till I see them here, by doubtful fear

My joy of liberty is half eclipsed.

It shall be done, my sovereign, with all speed.

My lord of Somerset, what youth is that

Of whom you seem to have so tender care?

My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond.

Come hither, England's hope.

If secret powers

Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts,

This pretty lad will prove our country's bliss.

His looks are full of peaceful majesty,

His head by nature framed to wear a crown,

His hand to wield a scepter, and himself

Likely in time to bless a regal throne.

Make much of him, my lords, for this is he

Must help you more than you are hurt by me.

What news, my friend?

That Edward is escaped from your brother

And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy.

Unsavory news! But how made he escape?

He was conveyed by Richard, Duke of Gloucester,

And the Lord Hastings, who attended him

In secret ambush on the forest side

And from the Bishop's huntsmen rescued him,

For hunting was his daily exercise.

My brother was too careless of his charge.

But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide

A salve for any sore that may betide.

My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward's,

For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help,

And we shall have more wars before 't be long.

As Henry's late presaging prophecy

Did glad my heart with hope of this young

Richmond,

So doth my heart misgive me in these conflicts

What may befall him, to his harm and ours.

Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst,

Forthwith we'll send him hence to Brittany

Till storms be past of civil enmity.

Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown,

'Tis like that Richmond, with the rest, shall down.

It shall be so. He shall to Brittany.

Come, therefore, let's about it speedily.

Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest:

Yet thus far Fortune maketh us amends,

And says that once more I shall interchange

My waned state for Henry's regal crown.

Well have we passed, and now re-passed, the seas,

And brought desired help from Burgundy.

What then remains, we being thus arrived

From Ravenspurgh Haven before the gates of York,

But that we enter as into our dukedom?

The gates made fast? Brother, I like not this.

For many men that stumble at the threshold

Are well foretold that danger lurks within.

Tush, man, abodements must not now affright us.

By fair or foul means we must enter in,

For hither will our friends repair to us.

My liege, I'll knock once more to summon them.

My lords, we were forewarned of your coming,

And shut the gates for safety of ourselves,

For now we owe allegiance unto Henry.

But, master mayor, if Henry be your king,

Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York.

True, my good lord, I know you for no less.

Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom,

As being well content with that alone.

But when the fox hath once got in his nose,

He'll soon find means to make the body follow.

Why, master mayor, why stand you in a doubt?

Open the gates. We are King Henry's friends.

Ay, say you so? The gates shall then be opened.

A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded.

The good old man would fain that all were well,

So 'twere not long of him; but being entered,

I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade

Both him and all his brothers unto reason.

So, master mayor, these gates must not be shut

But in the night or in the time of war.

What, fear not, man, but yield me up the keys.

For Edward will defend the town and thee

And all those friends that deign to follow me.

Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery,

Our trusty friend, unless I be deceived.

Welcome, Sir John. But why come you in arms?

To help King Edward in his time of storm,

As every loyal subject ought to do.

Thanks, good Montgomery. But we now forget

Our title to the crown, and only claim

Our dukedom, till God please to send the rest.

Then fare you well, for I will hence again.

I came to serve a king and not a duke.--

Drummer, strike up, and let us march away.

Nay, stay, Sir John, a while, and we'll debate

By what safe means the crown may be recovered.

What talk you of debating? In few words,

If you'll not here proclaim yourself our king,

I'll leave you to your fortune and be gone

To keep them back that come to succor you.

Why shall we fight if you pretend no title?

Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points?

When we grow stronger, then we'll make our claim.

Till then 'tis wisdom to conceal our meaning.

Away with scrupulous wit! Now arms must rule.

And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.

Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand;

The bruit thereof will bring you many friends.

Then be it as you will, for 'tis my right,

And Henry but usurps the diadem.

Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like himself,

And now will I be Edward's champion.

Sound, trumpet! Edward shall be here proclaimed.--

Come, fellow soldier, make thou proclamation.

Edward the Fourth, by the Grace of

God, King of England and France, and Lord of

Ireland, &c.

And whosoe'er gainsays King Edward's right,

By this I challenge him to single fight.

Long live Edward the Fourth!

Thanks, brave Montgomery, and thanks unto you all.

If fortune serve me, I'll requite this kindness.

Now, for this night let's harbor here in York,

And when the morning sun shall raise his car

Above the border of this horizon,

We'll forward towards Warwick and his mates;

For well I wot that Henry is no soldier.

Ah, froward Clarence, how evil it beseems thee

To flatter Henry and forsake thy brother!

Yet, as we may, we'll meet both thee and Warwick.

Come on, brave soldiers; doubt not of the day;

And that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.

What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia,

With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders,

Hath passed in safety through the Narrow Seas,

And with his troops doth march amain to London,

And many giddy people flock to him.

Let's levy men and beat him back again.

A little fire is quickly trodden out,

Which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench.

In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,

Not mutinous in peace yet bold in war.

Those will I muster up; and thou, son Clarence,

Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent

The knights and gentlemen to come with thee.--

Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,

Northampton, and in Leicestershire shalt find

Men well inclined to hear what thou command'st.--

And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved,

In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends.--

My sovereign, with the loving citizens,

Like to his island girt in with the ocean,

Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs,

Shall rest in London till we come to him.

Fair lords, take leave, and stand not to reply.--

Farewell, my sovereign.

Farewell, my Hector and my Troy's true hope.

In sign of truth, I kiss your Highness' hand.

Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate.

Comfort, my lord; and so I take my leave.

And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu.

Sweet Oxford and my loving Montague

And all at once, once more a happy farewell.

Farewell, sweet lords. Let's meet at Coventry.

Here at the palace will I rest awhile.

Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your Lordship?

Methinks the power that Edward hath in field

Should not be able to encounter mine.

The doubt is that he will seduce the rest.

That's not my fear. My meed hath got me fame.

I have not stopped mine ears to their demands,

Nor posted off their suits with slow delays.

My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,

My mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs,

My mercy dried their water-flowing tears.

I have not been desirous of their wealth

Nor much oppressed them with great subsidies,

Nor forward of revenge, though they much erred.

Then why should they love Edward more than me?

No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace;

And when the lion fawns upon the lamb,

The lamb will never cease to follow him.

Hark, hark, my lord, what shouts are these?

Seize on the shamefaced Henry, bear him hence,

And once again proclaim us King of England.--

You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow.

Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry

And swell so much the higher by their ebb.--

Hence with him to the Tower. Let him not speak.

And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course,

Where peremptory Warwick now remains.

The sun shines hot, and if we use delay,

Cold biting winter mars our hoped-for hay.

Away betimes, before his forces join,

And take the great-grown traitor unawares.

Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry.

Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford?--

How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow?

By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward.

How far off is our brother Montague?

Where is the post that came from Montague?

By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop.

Say, Somerville, what says my loving son?

And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now?

At Southam I did leave him with his forces

And do expect him here some two hours hence.

Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his drum.

It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies.

The drum your Honor hears marcheth from Warwick.

Who should that be? Belike unlooked-for friends.

They are at hand, and you shall quickly know.

Go, Trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle.

See how the surly Warwick mans the wall.

O unbid spite, is sportful Edward come?

Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduced,

That we could hear no news of his repair?

Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates,

Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy knee?

Call Edward king, and at his hands beg mercy,

And he shall pardon thee these outrages.

Nay, rather wilt thou draw thy forces hence,

Confess who set thee up and plucked thee down,

Call Warwick patron, and be penitent,

And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.

I thought at least he would have said the King.

Or did he make the jest against his will?

Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?

Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give.

I'll do thee service for so good a gift.

'Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother.

Why, then, 'tis mine, if but by Warwick's gift.

Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight;

And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again,

And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject.

But Warwick's king is Edward's prisoner.

And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this:

What is the body when the head is off?

Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast,

But whiles he thought to steal the single ten,

The King was slyly fingered from the deck.

You left poor Henry at the Bishop's palace,

And ten to one you'll meet him in the Tower.

'Tis even so; yet you are Warwick still.

Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel

down.

Nay, when? Strike now, or else the iron cools.

I had rather chop this hand off at a blow

And with the other fling it at thy face

Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee.

Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend,

This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,

Shall, whiles thy head is warm and new cut off,

Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood:

Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.

O, cheerful colors, see where Oxford comes!

Oxford, Oxford for Lancaster!

The gates are open; let us enter too.

So other foes may set upon our backs.

Stand we in good array, for they no doubt

Will issue out again and bid us battle.

If not, the city being but of small defense,

We'll quickly rouse the traitors in the same.

O welcome, Oxford, for we want thy help.

Montague, Montague for Lancaster!

Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason

Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear!

The harder matched, the greater victory.

My mind presageth happy gain and conquest.

Somerset, Somerset for Lancaster!

Two of thy name, both dukes of Somerset,

Have sold their lives unto the house of York,

And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold.

And lo, where George of Clarence sweeps along,

Of force enough to bid his brother battle,

With whom an upright zeal to right prevails

More than the nature of a brother's love.--

Come, Clarence, come; thou wilt, if Warwick call.

Father of Warwick, know you what this means?

Look, here I throw my infamy at thee.

I will not ruinate my father's house,

Who gave his blood to lime the stones together

And set up Lancaster. Why, trowest thou, Warwick,

That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt, unnatural,

To bend the fatal instruments of war

Against his brother and his lawful king?

Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath.

To keep that oath were more impiety

Than Jephthah when he sacrificed his daughter.

I am so sorry for my trespass made

That, to deserve well at my brother's hands,

I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe,

With resolution, wheresoe'er I meet thee--

As I will meet thee if thou stir abroad--

To plague thee for thy foul misleading me.

And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee

And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks.--

Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends.--

And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,

For I will henceforth be no more unconstant.

Now, welcome more, and ten times more beloved,

Than if thou never hadst deserved our hate.

Welcome, good Clarence; this is brother-like.

O, passing traitor, perjured and unjust.

What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town and fight?

Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears?

Alas, I am not cooped here for defense.

I will away towards Barnet presently

And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar'st.

Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way.--

Lords, to the field! Saint George and victory!

So, lie thou there. Die thou, and die our fear,

For Warwick was a bug that feared us all.

Now, Montague, sit fast. I seek for thee,

That Warwick's bones may keep thine company.

Ah, who is nigh? Come to me, friend or foe,

And tell me who is victor, York or Warwick?

Why ask I that? My mangled body shows,

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows

That I must yield my body to the earth

And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.

Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,

Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,

Under whose shade the ramping lion slept,

Whose top branch overpeered Jove's spreading tree

And kept low shrubs from winter's pow'rful wind.

These eyes, that now are dimmed with death's black

veil,

Have been as piercing as the midday sun

To search the secret treasons of the world.

The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood,

Were likened oft to kingly sepulchers,

For who lived king but I could dig his grave?

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?

Lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood!

My parks, my walks, my manors that I had

Even now forsake me; and of all my lands

Is nothing left me but my body's length.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?

And live we how we can, yet die we must.

Ah, Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are,

We might recover all our loss again.

The Queen from France hath brought a puissant

power;

Even now we heard the news. Ah, could'st thou fly--

Why, then, I would not fly. Ah, Montague,

If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand

And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile.

Thou lov'st me not, for, brother, if thou didst,

Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood

That glues my lips and will not let me speak.

Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.

Ah, Warwick, Montague hath breathed his last,

And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick,

And said Commend me to my valiant brother.

And more he would have said, and more he spoke,

Which sounded like a cannon in a vault,

That mought not be distinguished, but at last

I well might hear, delivered with a groan,

O, farewell, Warwick.

Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves,

For Warwick bids you all farewell to meet in heaven.

Away, away, to meet the Queen's great power!

Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course,

And we are graced with wreaths of victory.

But in the midst of this bright-shining day,

I spy a black suspicious threat'ning cloud

That will encounter with our glorious sun

Ere he attain his easeful western bed.

I mean, my lords, those powers that the Queen

Hath raised in Gallia have arrived our coast

And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

A little gale will soon disperse that cloud

And blow it to the source from whence it came;

Thy very beams will dry those vapors up,

For every cloud engenders not a storm.

The Queen is valued thirty thousand strong,

And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her.

If she have time to breathe, be well assured

Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

We are advertised by our loving friends

That they do hold their course toward Tewkesbury.

We having now the best at Barnet Field

Will thither straight, for willingness rids way,

And, as we march, our strength will be augmented

In every county as we go along.

Strike up the drum, cry Courage! and away.

Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss

But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.

What though the mast be now blown overboard,

The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost,

And half our sailors swallowed in the flood?

Yet lives our pilot still. Is 't meet that he

Should leave the helm and, like a fearful lad,

With tearful eyes add water to the sea

And give more strength to that which hath too much,

Whiles in his moan the ship splits on the rock,

Which industry and courage might have saved?

Ah, what a shame, ah, what a fault were this!

Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that?

And Montague our topmast; what of him?

Our slaughtered friends the tackles; what of these?

Why, is not Oxford here another anchor?

And Somerset another goodly mast?

The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?

And, though unskillful, why not Ned and I

For once allowed the skillful pilot's charge?

We will not from the helm to sit and weep,

But keep our course, though the rough wind say no,

From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack.

As good to chide the waves as speak them fair.

And what is Edward but a ruthless sea?

What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock--

All these the enemies to our poor bark?

Say you can swim: alas, 'tis but awhile;

Tread on the sand: why, there you quickly sink;

Bestride the rock: the tide will wash you off

Or else you famish; that's a threefold death.

This speak I, lords, to let you understand,

If case some one of you would fly from us,

That there's no hoped-for mercy with the brothers

More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks.

Why, courage then! What cannot be avoided

'Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.

Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit

Should, if a coward heard her speak these words,

Infuse his breast with magnanimity

And make him, naked, foil a man-at-arms.

I speak not this as doubting any here,

For did I but suspect a fearful man,

He should have leave to go away betimes,

Lest in our need he might infect another

And make him of like spirit to himself.

If any such be here, as God forbid,

Let him depart before we need his help.

Women and children of so high a courage,

And warriors faint? Why, 'twere perpetual shame!

O, brave young prince, thy famous grandfather

Doth live again in thee. Long mayst thou live

To bear his image and renew his glories!

And he that will not fight for such a hope,

Go home to bed and, like the owl by day,

If he arise, be mocked and wondered at.

Thanks, gentle Somerset.--Sweet Oxford, thanks.

And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else.

Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand,

Ready to fight. Therefore be resolute.

I thought no less. It is his policy

To haste thus fast to find us unprovided.

But he's deceived. We are in readiness.

This cheers my heart to see your forwardness.

Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood

Which by the heavens' assistance and your strength

Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night.

I need not add more fuel to your fire,

For, well I wot, you blaze to burn them out.

Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords!

Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say

My tears gainsay, for every word I speak

You see I drink the water of my eye.

Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your sovereign,

Is prisoner to the foe, his state usurped,

His realm a slaughterhouse, his subjects slain,

His statutes cancelled and his treasure spent,

And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil.

You fight in justice. Then, in God's name, lords,

Be valiant, and give signal to the fight!

Now here a period of tumultuous broils.

Away with Oxford to Hames Castle straight.

For Somerset, off with his guilty head.

Go bear them hence. I will not hear them speak.

For my part, I'll not trouble thee with words.

Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune.

So part we sadly in this troublous world

To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem.

Is proclamation made that who finds Edward

Shall have a high reward, and he his life?

It is, and lo where youthful Edward comes.

Bring forth the gallant; let us hear him speak.

What, can so young a thorn begin to prick?--

Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make

For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects,

And all the trouble thou hast turned me to?

Speak like a subject, proud ambitious York.

Suppose that I am now my father's mouth:

Resign thy chair, and where I stand, kneel thou,

Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee

Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to.

Ah, that thy father had been so resolved!

That you might still have worn the petticoat

And ne'er have stol'n the breech from Lancaster.

Let Aesop fable in a winter's night;

His currish riddles sorts not with this place.

By heaven, brat, I'll plague you for that word.

Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men.

For God's sake, take away this captive scold.

Nay, take away this scolding crookback, rather.

Peace, willful boy, or I will charm your tongue.

Untutored lad, thou art too malapert.

I know my duty. You are all undutiful.

Lascivious Edward, and thou perjured George,

And thou misshapen Dick, I tell you all

I am your better, traitors as you are,

And thou usurp'st my father's right and mine.

Take that, the likeness of this railer here!

Sprawl'st thou? Take that to end thy agony!

And there's for twitting me with perjury.

O, kill me too!

Marry, and shall.

Hold, Richard, hold, for we have done too much.

Why should she live to fill the world with words?

What, doth she swoon? Use means for her recovery.

Clarence, excuse me to the King my brother.

I'll hence to London on a serious matter.

Ere you come there, be sure to hear some news.

What? What?

The Tower, the Tower!

O Ned, sweet Ned, speak to thy mother, boy.

Canst thou not speak? O traitors, murderers!

They that stabbed Caesar shed no blood at all,

Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,

If this foul deed were by to equal it.

He was a man; this, in respect, a child,

And men ne'er spend their fury on a child.

What's worse than murderer, that I may name it?

No, no, my heart will burst an if I speak,

And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.

Butchers and villains, bloody cannibals,

How sweet a plant have you untimely cropped!

You have no children, butchers. If you had,

The thought of them would have stirred up remorse.

But if you ever chance to have a child,

Look in his youth to have him so cut off

As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince.

Away with her. Go bear her hence perforce.

Nay, never bear me hence! Dispatch me here.

Here sheathe thy sword; I'll pardon thee my death.

What, wilt thou not?--Then, Clarence, do it thou.

By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease.

Good Clarence, do! Sweet Clarence, do thou do it.

Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it?

Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself.

'Twas sin before, but now 'tis charity.

What, wilt thou not? Where is that devil's butcher,

Richard,

Hard-favored Richard? Richard, where art thou?

Thou art not here. Murder is thy alms-deed;

Petitioners for blood thou ne'er putt'st back.

Away, I say! I charge you bear her

hence.

So come to you and yours as to this prince!

Where's Richard gone?

To London all in post, and, as I guess,

To make a bloody supper in the Tower.

He's sudden if a thing comes in his head.

Now march we hence. Discharge the common sort

With pay and thanks, and let's away to London

And see our gentle queen how well she fares.

By this I hope she hath a son for me.

Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard?

Ay, my good lord--my lord, I should say rather.

'Tis sin to flatter; good was little better:

Good Gloucester and good devil were alike,

And both preposterous: therefore, not good lord.

Sirrah, leave us to ourselves; we must confer.

So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf;

So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece

And next his throat unto the butcher's knife.

What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind;

The thief doth fear each bush an officer.

The bird that hath been limed in a bush,

With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush;

And I, the hapless male to one sweet bird,

Have now the fatal object in my eye

Where my poor young was limed, was caught, and

killed.

Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete

That taught his son the office of a fowl!

And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drowned.

I Daedalus, my poor boy Icarus,

Thy father Minos, that denied our course;

The sun that seared the wings of my sweet boy

Thy brother Edward, and thyself the sea

Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life.

Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words!

My breast can better brook thy dagger's point

Than can my ears that tragic history.

But wherefore dost thou come? Is 't for my life?

Think'st thou I am an executioner?

A persecutor I am sure thou art.

If murdering innocents be executing,

Why, then, thou art an executioner.

Thy son I killed for his presumption.

Hadst thou been killed when first thou didst presume,

Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine.

And thus I prophesy: that many a thousand

Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear,

And many an old man's sigh, and many a widow's

And many an orphan's water-standing eye,

Men for their sons, wives for their husbands,

Orphans for their parents' timeless death,

Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.

The owl shrieked at thy birth, an evil sign;

The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time;

Dogs howled, and hideous tempest shook down trees;

The raven rooked her on the chimney's top;

And chatt'ring pies in dismal discords sung;

Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain,

And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope:

To wit, an indigested and deformed lump,

Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.

Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born

To signify thou cam'st to bite the world.

And if the rest be true which I have heard,

Thou cam'st--

I'll hear no more. Die, prophet, in thy speech;

For this amongst the rest was I ordained.

Ay, and for much more slaughter after this.

O God, forgive my sins, and pardon thee.

What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster

Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.

See how my sword weeps for the poor king's death.

O, may such purple tears be always shed

From those that wish the downfall of our house.

If any spark of life be yet remaining,

Down, down to hell, and say I sent thee thither--

I that have neither pity, love, nor fear.

Indeed, 'tis true that Henry told me of,

For I have often heard my mother say

I came into the world with my legs forward.

Had I not reason, think you, to make haste

And seek their ruin that usurped our right?

The midwife wondered, and the women cried

O Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!

And so I was, which plainly signified

That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog.

Then, since the heavens have shaped my body so,

Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it.

I have no brother, I am like no brother;

And this word love, which graybeards call divine,

Be resident in men like one another

And not in me. I am myself alone.

Clarence, beware; thou keep'st me from the light,

But I will sort a pitchy day for thee;

For I will buzz abroad such prophecies

That Edward shall be fearful of his life;

And then to purge his fear, I'll be thy death.

King Henry and the Prince his son are gone.

Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest,

Counting myself but bad till I be best.

I'll throw thy body in another room,

And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.

Once more we sit in England's royal throne,

Repurchased with the blood of enemies.

What valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn,

Have we mowed down in tops of all their pride!

Three dukes of Somerset, threefold renowned

For hardy and undoubted champions;

Two Cliffords, as the father and the son;

And two Northumberlands; two braver men

Ne'er spurred their coursers at the trumpet's sound.

With them the two brave bears, Warwick and

Montague,

That in their chains fettered the kingly lion

And made the forest tremble when they roared.

Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat

And made our footstool of security.--

Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy.--

Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles and myself

Have in our armors watched the winter's night,

Went all afoot in summer's scalding heat,

That thou mightst repossess the crown in peace,

And of our labors thou shalt reap the gain.

I'll blast his harvest, if your head were laid;

For yet I am not looked on in the world.

This shoulder was ordained so thick to heave,

And heave it shall some weight or break my back.

Work thou the way and that shalt execute.

Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen,

And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.

The duty that I owe unto your Majesty

I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.

Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother, thanks.

And that I love the tree from whence thou sprang'st,

Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit.

To say the truth, so Judas kissed his master

And cried All hail! whenas he meant all harm.

Now am I seated as my soul delights,

Having my country's peace and brothers' loves.

What will your Grace have done with Margaret?

Reignier, her father, to the King of France

Hath pawned the Sicils and Jerusalem,

And hither have they sent it for her ransom.

Away with her, and waft her hence to France.

And now what rests but that we spend the time

With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,

Such as befits the pleasure of the court?

Sound drums and trumpets! Farewell, sour annoy,

For here I hope begins our lasting joy.

henry_vi_part_3

henry_vi_part_1

Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

Comets, importing change of times and states,

Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,

And with them scourge the bad revolting stars

That have consented unto Henry's death:

King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long.

England ne'er lost a king of so much worth.

England ne'er had a king until his time.

Virtue he had, deserving to command;

His brandished sword did blind men with his beams;

His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings;

His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire,

More dazzled and drove back his enemies

Than midday sun fierce bent against their faces.

What should I say? His deeds exceed all speech.

He ne'er lift up his hand but conquered.

We mourn in black; why mourn we not in blood?

Henry is dead and never shall revive.

Upon a wooden coffin we attend,

And Death's dishonorable victory

We with our stately presence glorify,

Like captives bound to a triumphant car.

What? Shall we curse the planets of mishap

That plotted thus our glory's overthrow?

Or shall we think the subtle-witted French

Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him,

By magic verses have contrived his end?

He was a king blest of the King of kings;

Unto the French the dreadful Judgment Day

So dreadful will not be as was his sight.

The battles of the Lord of Hosts he fought;

The Church's prayers made him so prosperous.

The Church? Where is it? Had not churchmen prayed,

His thread of life had not so soon decayed.

None do you like but an effeminate prince

Whom like a schoolboy you may overawe.

Gloucester, whate'er we like, thou art Protector

And lookest to command the Prince and realm.

Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe

More than God or religious churchmen may.

Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh,

And ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st,

Except it be to pray against thy foes.

Cease, cease these jars, and rest your minds in peace!

Let's to the altar.--Heralds, wait on us.--

Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms,

Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead.

Posterity, await for wretched years

When at their mothers' moistened eyes babes shall

suck,

Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears,

And none but women left to wail the dead.

Henry the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate:

Prosper this realm, keep it from civil broils,

Combat with adverse planets in the heavens.

A far more glorious star thy soul will make

Than Julius Caesar or bright--

My honorable lords, health to you all.

Sad tidings bring I to you out of France,

Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture:

Guyen, Champaigne, Rheims, Roan, Orleance,

Paris, Gisors, Poitiers, are all quite lost.

What say'st thou, man, before dead Henry's corse?

Speak softly, or the loss of those great towns

Will make him burst his lead and rise from death.

Is Paris lost? Is Roan yielded up?

If Henry were recalled to life again,

These news would cause him once more yield the

ghost.

How were they lost? What treachery was used?

No treachery, but want of men and money.

Amongst the soldiers, this is muttered:

That here you maintain several factions

And, whilst a field should be dispatched and fought,

You are disputing of your generals.

One would have ling'ring wars with little cost;

Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings;

A third thinks, without expense at all,

By guileful fair words peace may be obtained.

Awake, awake, English nobility!

Let not sloth dim your honors new begot.

Cropped are the flower-de-luces in your arms;

Of England's coat, one half is cut away.

Were our tears wanting to this funeral,

These tidings would call forth her flowing tides.

Me they concern; regent I am of France.

Give me my steeled coat, I'll fight for France.

Away with these disgraceful wailing robes.

Wounds will I lend the French instead of eyes

To weep their intermissive miseries.

Lords, view these letters, full of bad mischance.

France is revolted from the English quite,

Except some petty towns of no import.

The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims;

The Bastard of Orleance with him is joined;

Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part;

The Duke of Alanson flieth to his side.

The Dauphin crowned king? All fly to him?

O, whither shall we fly from this reproach?

We will not fly but to our enemies' throats.--

Bedford, if thou be slack, I'll fight it out.

Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness?

An army have I mustered in my thoughts,

Wherewith already France is overrun.

My gracious lords, to add to your laments,

Wherewith you now bedew King Henry's hearse,

I must inform you of a dismal fight

Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French.

What? Wherein Talbot overcame, is 't so?

O no, wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown.

The circumstance I'll tell you more at large.

The tenth of August last, this dreadful lord,

Retiring from the siege of Orleance,

Having full scarce six thousand in his troop,

By three and twenty thousand of the French

Was round encompassed and set upon.

No leisure had he to enrank his men.

He wanted pikes to set before his archers,

Instead whereof, sharp stakes plucked out of hedges

They pitched in the ground confusedly

To keep the horsemen off from breaking in.

More than three hours the fight continued,

Where valiant Talbot, above human thought,

Enacted wonders with his sword and lance.

Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him;

Here, there, and everywhere, enraged, he slew.

The French exclaimed the devil was in arms;

All the whole army stood agazed on him.

His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit,

A Talbot! A Talbot! cried out amain

And rushed into the bowels of the battle.

Here had the conquest fully been sealed up

If Sir John Fastolf had not played the coward.

He, being in the vaward, placed behind

With purpose to relieve and follow them,

Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.

Hence grew the general wrack and massacre.

Enclosed were they with their enemies.

A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's grace,

Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back,

Whom all France, with their chief assembled

strength,

Durst not presume to look once in the face.

Is Talbot slain then? I will slay myself

For living idly here, in pomp and ease,

Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid,

Unto his dastard foemen is betrayed.

O, no, he lives, but is took prisoner,

And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford;

Most of the rest slaughtered or took likewise.

His ransom there is none but I shall pay.

I'll hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne;

His crown shall be the ransom of my friend.

Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours.

Farewell, my masters; to my task will I.

Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make,

To keep our great Saint George's feast withal.

Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take,

Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake.

So you had need; 'fore Orleance besieged,

The English army is grown weak and faint;

The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply

And hardly keeps his men from mutiny,

Since they so few watch such a multitude.

Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn:

Either to quell the Dauphin utterly

Or bring him in obedience to your yoke.

I do remember it, and here take my leave

To go about my preparation.

I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can

To view th' artillery and munition,

And then I will proclaim young Henry king.

To Eltham will I, where the young king is,

Being ordained his special governor;

And for his safety there I'll best devise.

Each hath his place and function to attend.

I am left out; for me nothing remains.

But long I will not be Jack-out-of-office.

The King from Eltham I intend to steal,

And sit at chiefest stern of public weal.

Mars his true moving, even as in the heavens

So in the Earth, to this day is not known.

Late did he shine upon the English side;

Now we are victors; upon us he smiles.

What towns of any moment but we have?

At pleasure here we lie, near Orleance.

Otherwhiles, the famished English, like pale ghosts,

Faintly besiege us one hour in a month.

They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves.

Either they must be dieted like mules

And have their provender tied to their mouths,

Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice.

Let's raise the siege. Why live we idly here?

Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear.

Remaineth none but mad-brained Salisbury,

And he may well in fretting spend his gall;

Nor men nor money hath he to make war.

Sound, sound alarum! We will rush on them.

Now for the honor of the forlorn French!

Him I forgive my death that killeth me

When he sees me go back one foot, or fly.

Whoever saw the like? What men have I!

Dogs, cowards, dastards! I would ne'er have fled

But that they left me 'midst my enemies.

Salisbury is a desperate homicide.

He fighteth as one weary of his life.

The other lords, like lions wanting food,

Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.

Froissart, a countryman of ours, records

England all Olivers and Rolands bred

During the time Edward the Third did reign.

More truly now may this be verified,

For none but Samsons and Goliases

It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!

Lean rawboned rascals! Who would e'er suppose

They had such courage and audacity?

Let's leave this town, for they are hare-brained slaves,

And hunger will enforce them to be more eager.

Of old I know them; rather with their teeth

The walls they'll tear down than forsake the siege.

I think by some odd gimmers or device

Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on;

Else ne'er could they hold out so as they do.

By my consent, we'll even let them alone.

Be it so.

Where's the Prince Dauphin? I have news for him.

Bastard of Orleance, thrice welcome to us.

Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appalled.

Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence?

Be not dismayed, for succor is at hand.

A holy maid hither with me I bring,

Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven,

Ordained is to raise this tedious siege

And drive the English forth the bounds of France.

The spirit of deep prophecy she hath,

Exceeding the nine Sibyls of old Rome.

What's past and what's to come she can descry.

Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words,

For they are certain and unfallible.

Go call her in.

But first, to try her skill,

Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place;

Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern.

By this means shall we sound what skill she hath.

Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats?

Reignier, is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me?

Where is the Dauphin?--Come, come from behind.

I know thee well, though never seen before.

Be not amazed; there's nothing hid from me.

In private will I talk with thee apart.--

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave a while.

She takes upon her bravely at first dash.

Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's daughter,

My wit untrained in any kind of art.

Heaven and Our Lady gracious hath it pleased

To shine on my contemptible estate.

Lo, whilst I waited on my tender lambs,

And to sun's parching heat displayed my cheeks,

God's Mother deigned to appear to me,

And in a vision full of majesty

Willed me to leave my base vocation

And free my country from calamity.

Her aid she promised and assured success.

In complete glory she revealed herself;

And whereas I was black and swart before,

With those clear rays which she infused on me

That beauty am I blest with, which you may see.

Ask me what question thou canst possible,

And I will answer unpremeditated.

My courage try by combat, if thou dar'st,

And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex.

Resolve on this: thou shalt be fortunate

If thou receive me for thy warlike mate.

Thou hast astonished me with thy high terms.

Only this proof I'll of thy valor make:

In single combat thou shalt buckle with me,

And if thou vanquishest, thy words are true;

Otherwise I renounce all confidence.

I am prepared. Here is my keen-edged sword,

Decked with fine flower-de-luces on each side--

The which at Touraine, in Saint Katherine's

churchyard,

Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.

Then come, a' God's name! I fear no woman.

And while I live, I'll ne'er fly from a man.

Stay, stay thy hands! Thou art an Amazon,

And fightest with the sword of Deborah.

Christ's mother helps me; else I were too weak.

Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me.

Impatiently I burn with thy desire.

My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued.

Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,

Let me thy servant and not sovereign be.

'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus.

I must not yield to any rights of love,

For my profession's sacred from above.

When I have chased all thy foes from hence,

Then will I think upon a recompense.

Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall.

My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.

Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock,

Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech.

Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no mean?

He may mean more than we poor men do know.

These women are shrewd tempters with their

tongues.

My lord, where are you? What devise you on?

Shall we give o'er Orleance, or no?

Why, no, I say. Distrustful recreants,

Fight till the last gasp. I'll be your guard.

What she says I'll confirm: we'll fight it out.

Assigned am I to be the English scourge.

This night the siege assuredly I'll raise.

Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyons' days,

Since I have entered into these wars.

Glory is like a circle in the water,

Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself

Till by broad spreading it disperse to naught.

With Henry's death, the English circle ends;

Dispersed are the glories it included.

Now am I like that proud insulting ship

Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once.

Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?

Thou with an eagle art inspired then.

Helen, the mother of great Constantine,

Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters were like thee.

Bright star of Venus, fall'n down on the Earth,

How may I reverently worship thee enough?

Leave off delays, and let us raise the siege.

Woman, do what thou canst to save our honors.

Drive them from Orleance and be immortalized.

Presently we'll try. Come, let's away about it.

No prophet will I trust if she prove false.

I am come to survey the Tower this day.

Since Henry's death I fear there is conveyance.

Where be these warders that they wait not here?--

Open the gates! 'Tis Gloucester that calls.

Who's there that knocks so imperiously?

It is the noble Duke of Gloucester.

Whoe'er he be, you may not be let in.

Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector?

The Lord protect him, so we answer him.

We do no otherwise than we are willed.

Who willed you? Or whose will stands but mine?

There's none Protector of the realm but I.--

Break up the gates! I'll be your warrantize.

Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms?

What noise is this? What traitors have we here?

Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear?

Open the gates. Here's Gloucester that would enter.

Have patience, noble duke, I may not open.

The Cardinal of Winchester forbids.

From him I have express commandment

That thou nor none of thine shall be let in.

Fainthearted Woodville, prizest him 'fore me?

Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate

Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook?

Thou art no friend to God or to the King.

Open the gates, or I'll shut thee out shortly.

Open the gates unto the Lord Protector,

Or we'll burst them open if that you come not quickly.

How now, ambitious Humphrey, what means this?

Peeled priest, dost thou command me to be shut out?

I do, thou most usurping proditor--

And not Protector--of the King or realm.

Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,

Thou that contrived'st to murder our dead lord,

Thou that giv'st whores indulgences to sin!

I'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat

If thou proceed in this thy insolence.

Nay, stand thou back. I will not budge a foot.

This be Damascus; be thou cursed Cain

To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt.

I will not slay thee, but I'll drive thee back.

Thy scarlet robes, as a child's bearing-cloth,

I'll use to carry thee out of this place.

Do what thou dar'st, I beard thee to thy face.

What, am I dared and bearded to my face?--

Draw, men, for all this privileged place.

Blue coats to tawny coats!

Priest, beware your beard.

I mean to tug it and to cuff you soundly.

Under my feet I'll stamp thy cardinal's hat;

In spite of pope or dignities of Church,

Here by the cheeks I'll drag thee up and down.

Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the Pope.

Winchester goose, I cry a rope, a rope!--

Now beat them hence; why do you let them stay?--

Thee I'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array.--

Out, tawny coats, out, scarlet hypocrite!

Fie, lords, that you, being supreme magistrates,

Thus contumeliously should break the peace!

Peace, Mayor? Thou know'st little of my wrongs.

Here's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor king,

Hath here distrained the Tower to his use.

Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens,

One that still motions war and never peace,

O'ercharging your free purses with large fines;

That seeks to overthrow religion

Because he is Protector of the realm,

And would have armor here out of the Tower

To crown himself king and suppress the Prince.

I will not answer thee with words, but blows.

Naught rests for me in this tumultuous strife

But to make open proclamation.

Come, officer, as loud as e'er thou canst, cry.

All manner of men, assembled here in

arms this day against God's peace and the King's, we

charge and command you, in his Highness' name, to

repair to your several dwelling places, and not to

wear, handle, or use any sword, weapon, or dagger

henceforward, upon pain of death.

Cardinal, I'll be no breaker of the law,

But we shall meet and break our minds at large.

Gloucester, we'll meet to thy cost, be sure.

Thy heartblood I will have for this day's work.

I'll call for clubs if you will not away.

This cardinal's more haughty than the devil!

Mayor, farewell. Thou dost but what thou mayst.

Abominable Gloucester, guard thy head,

For I intend to have it ere long.

See the coast cleared, and then we will depart.

Good God, these nobles should such

stomachs bear!

I myself fight not once in forty year.

Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleance is besieged

And how the English have the suburbs won.

Father, I know, and oft have shot at them;

Howe'er, unfortunate, I missed my aim.

But now thou shalt not. Be thou ruled by me.

Chief master-gunner am I of this town;

Something I must do to procure me grace.

The Prince's espials have informed me

How the English, in the suburbs close entrenched,

Went through a secret grate of iron bars

In yonder tower, to overpeer the city,

And thence discover how with most advantage

They may vex us with shot or with assault.

To intercept this inconvenience,

A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have placed,

And even these three days have I watched

If I could see them. Now do thou watch,

For I can stay no longer.

If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word;

And thou shalt find me at the Governor's.

Father, I warrant you, take you no care;

I'll never trouble you if I may spy them.

Talbot, my life, my joy, again returned!

How wert thou handled, being prisoner?

Or by what means gott'st thou to be released?

Discourse, I prithee, on this turret's top.

The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner

Called the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles;

For him was I exchanged and ransomed.

But with a baser man-of-arms by far

Once in contempt they would have bartered me,

Which I disdaining, scorned, and craved death

Rather than I would be so vile-esteemed.

In fine, redeemed I was as I desired.

But O, the treacherous Fastolf wounds my heart,

Whom with my bare fists I would execute

If I now had him brought into my power.

Yet tell'st thou not how thou wert entertained.

With scoffs and scorns and contumelious taunts.

In open marketplace produced they me

To be a public spectacle to all.

Here, said they, is the terror of the French,

The scarecrow that affrights our children so.

Then broke I from the officers that led me,

And with my nails digged stones out of the ground

To hurl at the beholders of my shame.

My grisly countenance made others fly;

None durst come near for fear of sudden death.

In iron walls they deemed me not secure:

So great fear of my name 'mongst them were spread

That they supposed I could rend bars of steel

And spurn in pieces posts of adamant.

Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had

That walked about me every minute-while;

And if I did but stir out of my bed,

Ready they were to shoot me to the heart.

I grieve to hear what torments you endured,

But we will be revenged sufficiently.

Now it is supper time in Orleance.

Here, through this grate, I count each one

And view the Frenchmen how they fortify.

Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee.

Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale,

Let me have your express opinions

Where is best place to make our batt'ry next?

I think at the north gate, for there stands lords.

And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge.

For aught I see, this city must be famished

Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.

O Lord, have mercy on us, wretched sinners!

O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man!

What chance is this that suddenly hath crossed us?--

Speak, Salisbury--at least if thou canst, speak!

How far'st thou, mirror of all martial men?

One of thy eyes and thy cheek's side struck off!--

Accursed tower, accursed fatal hand

That hath contrived this woeful tragedy!

In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame;

Henry the Fifth he first trained to the wars.

Whilst any trump did sound or drum struck up,

His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field.--

Yet liv'st thou, Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail,

One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace.

The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.

Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive

If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands!--

Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life?

Speak unto Talbot. Nay, look up to him.--

Bear hence his body; I will help to bury it.

Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort,

Thou shalt not die whiles--

He beckons with his hand and smiles on me

As who should say When I am dead and gone,

Remember to avenge me on the French.

Plantagenet, I will; and, like thee, Nero,

Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn.

Wretched shall France be only in my name.

What stir is this? What tumult's in the heavens?

Whence cometh this alarum and the noise?

My lord, my lord, the French have gathered head.

The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle joined,

A holy prophetess new risen up,

Is come with a great power to raise the siege.

Hear, hear, how dying Salisbury doth groan;

It irks his heart he cannot be revenged.

Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you.

Pucelle or puzel, dauphin or dogfish,

Your hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels

And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.

Convey we Salisbury into his tent,

And then try what these dastard Frenchmen dare.

Where is my strength, my valor, and my force?

Our English troops retire; I cannot stay them.

A woman clad in armor chaseth them.

Here, here she comes!--I'll have a bout with thee.

Devil or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee.

Blood will I draw on thee--thou art a witch--

And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv'st.

Come, come; 'tis only I that must disgrace thee.

Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?

My breast I'll burst with straining of my courage,

And from my shoulders crack my arms asunder,

But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet.

Talbot, farewell. Thy hour is not yet come.

I must go victual Orleance forthwith.

O'ertake me if thou canst. I scorn thy strength.

Go, go, cheer up thy hunger-starved men.

Help Salisbury to make his testament.

This day is ours, as many more shall be.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel.

I know not where I am nor what I do.

A witch by fear--not force, like Hannibal--

Drives back our troops, and conquers as she lists.

So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench

Are from their hives and houses driven away.

They called us, for our fierceness, English dogs;

Now like to whelps we crying run away.

Hark, countrymen, either renew the fight,

Or tear the lions out of England's coat.

Renounce your soil; give sheep in lions' stead.

Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf,

Or horse or oxen from the leopard,

As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves.

It will not be! Retire into your trenches.

You all consented unto Salisbury's death,

For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.

Pucelle is entered into Orleance

In spite of us or aught that we could do.

O, would I were to die with Salisbury!

The shame hereof will make me hide my head.

Advance our waving colors on the walls.

Rescued is Orleance from the English.

Thus Joan la Pucelle hath performed her word.

Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter,

How shall I honor thee for this success?

Thy promises are like Adonis' garden

That one day bloomed and fruitful were the next.

France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess.

Recovered is the town of Orleance.

More blessed hap did ne'er befall our state.

Why ring not bells aloud throughout the town?

Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires

And feast and banquet in the open streets

To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.

All France will be replete with mirth and joy

When they shall hear how we have played the men.

'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won;

For which I will divide my crown with her,

And all the priests and friars in my realm

Shall in procession sing her endless praise.

A statelier pyramis to her I'll rear

Than Rhodophe's of Memphis ever was.

In memory of her, when she is dead,

Her ashes, in an urn more precious

Than the rich-jeweled coffer of Darius,

Transported shall be at high festivals

Before the kings and queens of France.

No longer on Saint Dennis will we cry,

But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint.

Come in, and let us banquet royally

After this golden day of victory.

Sirs, take your places and be vigilant.

If any noise or soldier you perceive

Near to the walls, by some apparent sign

Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.

Sergeant, you shall.

Thus are poor servitors,

When others sleep upon their quiet beds,

Constrained to watch in darkness, rain, and cold.

Lord Regent, and redoubted Burgundy,

By whose approach the regions of Artois,

Walloon, and Picardy are friends to us,

This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,

Having all day caroused and banqueted.

Embrace we then this opportunity,

As fitting best to quittance their deceit

Contrived by art and baleful sorcery.

Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame,

Despairing of his own arm's fortitude,

To join with witches and the help of hell!

Traitors have never other company.

But what's that Pucelle whom they term so pure?

A maid, they say.

A maid? And be so martial?

Pray God she prove not masculine ere long,

If underneath the standard of the French

She carry armor as she hath begun.

Well, let them practice and converse with spirits.

God is our fortress, in whose conquering name

Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.

Ascend, brave Talbot. We will follow thee.

Not all together. Better far, I guess,

That we do make our entrance several ways,

That if it chance the one of us do fail,

The other yet may rise against their force.

Agreed. I'll to yond corner.

And I to this.

And here will Talbot mount, or make his grave.

Now, Salisbury, for thee and for the right

Of English Henry, shall this night appear

How much in duty I am bound to both.

Arm, arm! The enemy doth make assault.

How now, my lords? What, all unready so?

Unready? Ay, and glad we scaped so well.

'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,

Hearing alarums at our chamber doors.

Of all exploits since first I followed arms

Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise

More venturous or desperate than this.

I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell.

If not of hell, the heavens sure favor him.

Here cometh Charles. I marvel how he sped.

Tut, holy Joan was his defensive guard.

Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame?

Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,

Make us partakers of a little gain

That now our loss might be ten times so much?

Wherefore is Charles impatient with his friend?

At all times will you have my power alike?

Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail,

Or will you blame and lay the fault on me?--

Improvident soldiers, had your watch been good,

This sudden mischief never could have fall'n.

Duke of Alanson, this was your default,

That, being captain of the watch tonight,

Did look no better to that weighty charge.

Had all your quarters been as safely kept

As that whereof I had the government,

We had not been thus shamefully surprised.

Mine was secure.

And so was mine, my lord.

And for myself, most part of all this night

Within her quarter and mine own precinct

I was employed in passing to and fro

About relieving of the sentinels.

Then how or which way should they first break in?

Question, my lords, no further of the case,

How or which way; 'tis sure they found some place

But weakly guarded, where the breach was made.

And now there rests no other shift but this:

To gather our soldiers, scattered and dispersed,

And lay new platforms to endamage them.

I'll be so bold to take what they have left.

The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword,

For I have loaden me with many spoils,

Using no other weapon but his name.

The day begins to break and night is fled,

Whose pitchy mantle over-veiled the Earth.

Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit.

Bring forth the body of old Salisbury,

And here advance it in the marketplace,

The middle center of this cursed town.

Now have I paid my vow unto his soul:

For every drop of blood was drawn from him

There hath at least five Frenchmen died tonight.

And, that hereafter ages may behold

What ruin happened in revenge of him,

Within their chiefest temple I'll erect

A tomb wherein his corpse shall be interred,

Upon the which, that everyone may read,

Shall be engraved the sack of Orleance,

The treacherous manner of his mournful death,

And what a terror he had been to France.

But, lords, in all our bloody massacre,

I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace,

His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc,

Nor any of his false confederates.

'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began,

Roused on the sudden from their drowsy beds,

They did amongst the troops of armed men

Leap o'er the walls for refuge in the field.

Myself, as far as I could well discern

For smoke and dusky vapors of the night,

Am sure I scared the Dauphin and his trull,

When arm-in-arm they both came swiftly running,

Like to a pair of loving turtledoves

That could not live asunder day or night.

After that things are set in order here,

We'll follow them with all the power we have.

All hail, my lords. Which of this princely train

Call you the warlike Talbot, for his acts

So much applauded through the realm of France?

Here is the Talbot. Who would speak with him?

The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,

With modesty admiring thy renown,

By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe

To visit her poor castle where she lies,

That she may boast she hath beheld the man

Whose glory fills the world with loud report.

Is it even so? Nay, then, I see our wars

Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport,

When ladies crave to be encountered with.

You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.

Ne'er trust me, then; for when a world of men

Could not prevail with all their oratory,

Yet hath a woman's kindness overruled.--

And therefore tell her I return great thanks,

And in submission will attend on her.--

Will not your Honors bear me company?

No, truly, 'tis more than manners will;

And I have heard it said unbidden guests

Are often welcomest when they are gone.

Well then, alone, since there's no remedy,

I mean to prove this lady's courtesy.--

Come hither, captain.

You perceive my mind?

I do, my lord, and mean accordingly.

Porter, remember what I gave in charge,

And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.

Madam, I will.

The plot is laid. If all things fall out right,

I shall as famous be by this exploit

As Scythian Tamyris by Cyrus' death.

Great is the rumor of this dreadful knight,

And his achievements of no less account.

Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears

To give their censure of these rare reports.

Madam, according as your Ladyship desired,

By message craved, so is Lord Talbot come.

And he is welcome. What, is this the man?

Madam, it is.

Is this the scourge of France?

Is this the Talbot, so much feared abroad

That with his name the mothers still their babes?

I see report is fabulous and false.

I thought I should have seen some Hercules,

A second Hector, for his grim aspect

And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs.

Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf!

It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp

Should strike such terror to his enemies.

Madam, I have been bold to trouble you.

But since your Ladyship is not at leisure,

I'll sort some other time to visit you.

What means he now? Go ask him whither he goes.

Stay, my Lord Talbot, for my lady craves

To know the cause of your abrupt departure.

Marry, for that she's in a wrong belief,

I go to certify her Talbot's here.

If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.

Prisoner? To whom?

To me, bloodthirsty lord.

And for that cause I trained thee to my house.

Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,

For in my gallery thy picture hangs.

But now the substance shall endure the like,

And I will chain these legs and arms of thine,

That hast by tyranny these many years

Wasted our country, slain our citizens,

And sent our sons and husbands captivate.

Ha, ha, ha!

Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth shall turn to moan.

I laugh to see your Ladyship so fond

To think that you have aught but Talbot's shadow

Whereon to practice your severity.

Why, art not thou the man?

I am, indeed.

Then have I substance too.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself.

You are deceived; my substance is not here,

For what you see is but the smallest part

And least proportion of humanity.

I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,

It is of such a spacious lofty pitch

Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't.

This is a riddling merchant for the nonce:

He will be here and yet he is not here.

How can these contrarieties agree?

That will I show you presently.

How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded

That Talbot is but shadow of himself?

These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength,

With which he yoketh your rebellious necks,

Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns,

And in a moment makes them desolate.

Victorious Talbot, pardon my abuse.

I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited,

And more than may be gathered by thy shape.

Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath,

For I am sorry that with reverence

I did not entertain thee as thou art.

Be not dismayed, fair lady, nor misconster

The mind of Talbot as you did mistake

The outward composition of his body.

What you have done hath not offended me,

Nor other satisfaction do I crave

But only, with your patience, that we may

Taste of your wine and see what cates you have,

For soldiers' stomachs always serve them well.

With all my heart, and think me honored

To feast so great a warrior in my house.

Great lords and gentlemen, what means this silence?

Dare no man answer in a case of truth?

Within the Temple Hall we were too loud;

The garden here is more convenient.

Then say at once if I maintained the truth,

Or else was wrangling Somerset in th' error?

Faith, I have been a truant in the law

And never yet could frame my will to it,

And therefore frame the law unto my will.

Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us.

Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch,

Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth,

Between two blades, which bears the better temper,

Between two horses, which doth bear him best,

Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye,

I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment;

But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,

Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.

Tut, tut, here is a mannerly forbearance!

The truth appears so naked on my side

That any purblind eye may find it out.

And on my side it is so well appareled,

So clear, so shining, and so evident,

That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye.

Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak,

In dumb significants proclaim your thoughts:

Let him that is a trueborn gentleman

And stands upon the honor of his birth,

If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,

From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.

Let him that is no coward nor no flatterer,

But dare maintain the party of the truth,

Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.

I love no colors; and, without all color

Of base insinuating flattery,

I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.

I pluck this red rose with young Somerset,

And say withal