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Project Gutenberg's Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare, by E. NesbitThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. orgTitle: Beautiful Stories from ShakespeareAuthor: E. NesbitPosting Date: August 15, 2008 [EBook #1430]Release Date: August, 1998Last Updated: March 9, 2018Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE ***Produced by Morrie Wilson and James RoseBEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEAREBy E. Nesbit “It may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works may be collected a system of civil and economical prudence. He has been imitated by all succeeding writers; and it may be doubted whether from all his successors more maxims of theoretical knowledge, or more rules of practical prudence can be collected than he alone has given to his country. ”-- Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON. PREFACEThe writings of Shakespeare have been justly termed “the richest, thepurest, the fairest, that genius uninspired ever penned. ”Shakespeare instructed by delighting. His plays alone (leaving merescience out of the question), contain more actual wisdom than thewhole body of English learning. He is the teacher of all good-- pity,generosity, true courage, love. His bright wit is cut out “into littlestars. ” His solid masses of knowledge are meted out in morsels andproverbs, and thus distributed, there is scarcely a corner of theEnglish-speaking world to-day which he does not illuminate, or a cottagewhich he does not enrich. His bounty is like the sea, which, thoughoften unacknowledged, is everywhere felt. As his friend, Ben Jonson,wrote of him, “He was not of an age but for all time. ” He ever kept thehighroad of human life whereon all travel. He did not pick out by-pathsof feeling and sentiment. In his creations we have no moral highwaymen,sentimental thieves, interesting villains, and amiable, elegantadventuresses--no delicate entanglements of situation, in whichthe grossest images are presented to the mind disguised under thesuperficial attraction of style and sentiment. He flattered no badpassion, disguised no vice in the garb of virtue, trifled with no justand generous principle. While causing us to laugh at folly, and shudderat crime, he still preserves our love for our fellow-beings, and ourreverence for ourselves. Shakespeare was familiar with all beautiful forms and images, withall that is sweet or majestic in the simple aspects of nature, ofthat indestructible love of flowers and fragrance, and dews, andclear waters--and soft airs and sounds, and bright skies and woodlandsolitudes, and moon-light bowers, which are the material elements ofpoetry,--and with that fine sense of their indefinable relation tomental emotion, which is its essence and vivifying soul--and which, inthe midst of his most busy and tragical scenes, falls like gleams ofsunshine on rocks and ruins--contrasting with all that is rugged orrepulsive, and reminding us of the existence of purer and brighterelements. These things considered, what wonder is it that the works ofShakespeare, next to the Bible, are the most highly esteemed of all theclassics of English literature. “So extensively have the characters ofShakespeare been drawn upon by artists, poets, and writers of fiction,” says an American author,--“So interwoven are these characters in thegreat body of English literature, that to be ignorant of the plot ofthese dramas is often a cause of embarrassment. ”But Shakespeare wrote for grown-up people, for men and women, and inwords that little folks cannot understand. Hence this volume. To reproduce the entertaining stories containedin the plays of Shakespeare, in a form so simple that children canunderstand and enjoy them, was the object had in view by the author ofthese Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare. And that the youngest readers may not stumble in pronouncing anyunfamiliar names to be met with in the stories, the editor has preparedand included in the volume a Pronouncing Vocabulary of Difficult Names. To which is added a collection of Shakespearean Quotations, classifiedin alphabetical order, illustrative of the wisdom and genius of theworld's greatest dramatist. E. T. R. A BRIEF LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. In the register of baptisms of the parish church of Stratford-upon-Avon,a market town in Warwickshire, England, appears, under date of April 26,1564, the entry of the baptism of William, the son of John Shakspeare. The entry is in Latin--“Gulielmus filius Johannis Shakspeare. ”The date of William Shakespeare's birth has usually been taken as threedays before his baptism, but there is certainly no evidence of thisfact. The family name was variously spelled, the dramatist himself not alwaysspelling it in the same way. While in the baptismal record the name isspelled “Shakspeare,” in several authentic autographs of the dramatistit reads “Shakspere,” and in the first edition of his works it isprinted “Shakespeare. ”Halliwell tells us, that there are not less than thirty-four ways inwhich the various members of the Shakespeare family wrote the name,and in the council-book of the corporation of Stratford, where it isintroduced one hundred and sixty-six times during the period thatthe dramatist's father was a member of the municipal body, there arefourteen different spellings. The modern “Shakespeare” is not amongthem. Shakespeare's father, while an alderman at Stratford, appears to havebeen unable to write his name, but as at that time nine men out often were content to make their mark for a signature, the fact is notspecially to his discredit. The traditions and other sources of information about the occupationof Shakespeare's father differ. He is described as a butcher, awoolstapler, and a glover, and it is not impossible that he may havebeen all of these simultaneously or at different times, or that ifhe could not properly be called any one of them, the nature of hisoccupation was such as to make it easy to understand how the varioustraditions sprang up. He was a landed proprietor and cultivator of hisown land even before his marriage, and he received with his wife, whowas Mary Arden, daughter of a country gentleman, the estate of Asbies,56 acres in extent. William was the third child. The two older than hewere daughters, and both probably died in infancy. After him was bornthree sons and a daughter. For ten or twelve years at least, afterShakespeare's birth his father continued to be in easy circumstances. Inthe year 1568 he was the high bailiff or chief magistrate of Stratford,and for many years afterwards he held the position of alderman as hehad done for three years before. To the completion of his tenth year,therefore, it is natural to suppose that William Shakespeare would getthe best education that Stratford could afford. The free school of thetown was open to all boys and like all the grammar-schools of that time,was under the direction of men who, as graduates of the universities,were qualified to diffuse that sound scholarship which was once theboast of England. There is no record of Shakespeare's having been atthis school, but there can be no rational doubt that he was educatedthere. His father could not have procured for him a better educationanywhere. To those who have studied Shakespeare's works without beinginfluenced by the old traditional theory that he had received a verynarrow education, they abound with evidences that he must have beensolidly grounded in the learning, properly so called, was taught in thegrammar schools. There are local associations connected with Stratford which could notbe without their influence in the formation of young Shakespeare's mind. Within the range of such a boy's curiosity were the fine old historictowns of Warwick and Coventry, the sumptuous palace of Kenilworth, thegrand monastic remains of Evesham. His own Avon abounded with spots ofsingular beauty, quiet hamlets, solitary woods. Nor was Stratford shutout from the general world, as many country towns are. It was a greathighway, and dealers with every variety of merchandise resorted to itsmarkets. The eyes of the poet dramatist must always have been open forobservation. But nothing is known positively of Shakespeare from hisbirth to his marriage to Anne Hathaway in 1582, and from that datenothing but the birth of three children until we find him an actor inLondon about 1589. How long acting continued to be Shakespeare's sole profession we haveno means of knowing, but it is in the highest degree probable that verysoon after arriving in London he began that work of adaptation by whichhe is known to have begun his literary career. To improve and alterolder plays not up to the standard that was required at the time wasa common practice even among the best dramatists of the day, andShakespeare's abilities would speedily mark him out as eminently fittedfor this kind of work. When the alterations in plays originally composedby other writers became very extensive, the work of adaptation wouldbecome in reality a work of creation. And this is exactly what we haveexamples of in a few of Shakespeare's early works, which are known tohave been founded on older plays. It is unnecessary here to extol the published works of the world'sgreatest dramatist. Criticism has been exhausted upon them, and thefinest minds of England, Germany, and America have devoted their powersto an elucidation of their worth. Shakespeare died at Stratford on the 23rd of April, 1616. His father haddied before him, in 1602, and his mother in 1608. His wife survivedhim till August, 1623. His so Hamnet died in 1596 at the age of elevenyears. His two daughters survived him, the eldest of whom, Susanna, had,in 1607, married a physician of Stratford, Dr. Hall. The only issue ofthis marriage, a daughter named Elizabeth, born in 1608, married firstThomas Nasbe, and afterwards Sir John Barnard, but left no children byeither marriage. Shakespeare's younger daughter, Judith, on the 10th ofFebruary, 1616, married a Stratford gentleman named Thomas Quincy, bywhom she had three sons, all of whom died, however, without issue. Thereare thus no direct descendants of Shakespeare. Shakespeare's fellow-actors, fellow-dramatists, and those who knew himin other ways, agree in expressing not only admiration of his genius,but their respect and love for the man. Ben Jonson said, “I love theman, and do honor his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. Hewas indeed honest, and of an open and free nature. ” He was buried onthe second day after his death, on the north side of the chancelof Stratford church. Over his grave there is a flat stone with thisinscription, said to have been written by himself: Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare To digg the dust encloased heare: Blest be ye man yt spares these stones, And curst be he yt moves my bones. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 A BRIEF LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE . . . . . . . . . . . 7 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM . . . . . . . . . . . 19 THE TEMPEST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 AS YOU LIKE IT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 THE WINTER'S TALE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 KING LEAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 TWELFTH NIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 ROMEO AND JULIET . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . 105 PERICLES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 HAMLET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 CYMBELINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 MACBETH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 TIMON OF ATHENS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 OTHELLO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW . . . . . . . . . . . . 228 MEASURE FOR MEASURE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA . . . . . . . . . . . . 255 ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . . . . . . . . . . . 272 PRONOUNCING VOCABULARY OF NAMES . . . . . . . . 286 QUOTATIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE . . . . . . . . . . 288ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE TITANIA: THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES . . . . . . . 20 THE QUARREL . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . 22 HELENA IN THE WOOD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 TITANIA PLACED UNDER A SPELL . . . . . . . . . 30 TITANIA AWAKES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 PRINCE FERDINAND IN THE SEA . . . . . . . . . . 36 PRINCE FERDINAND SEES MIRANDA . . . . . . . . . 39 PLAYING CHESS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 ROSALIND AND CELIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 ROSALIND GIVES ORLANDO A CHAIN . . . . . . . . 47 GANYMEDE FAINTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 LEFT ON THE SEA-COAST . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 THE KING WOULD NOT LOOK . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 LEONTES RECEIVING FLORIZEL AND PERDITA . . . . 60 FLORIZEL AND PERDITA TALKING . . . . . . . . . 62 HERMOINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 CORDELIA AND THE KING OF FRANCE . . . . . . . . 67 GONERIL AND REGAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 CORDELIA IN PRISON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 VIOLA AND THE CAPTAIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 VIOLA AS “CESARIO” MEETS OLIVIA . . . .

. . . . 76 “YOU TOO HAVE BEEN IN LOVE” . . . . . . . . . . 78 CLAUDIA AND HERO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 HERO AND URSULA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 BENEDICK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 FRIAR FRANCIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 ROMEO AND TYBALT FIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 ROMEO DISCOVERS JULIET . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 MARRIAGE OF ROMEO AND JULIET . . . . . . . . . 111 THE NURSE THINKS JULIET DEAD . . . . . . . . . 115 ROMEO ENTERING THE TOMB . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 PERICLES WINS IN THE TOURNAMENT . . . . . . . . 122 PERICLES AND MARINA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 THE KING'S GHOST APPEARS . . . . . . . . . . . 131 POLONIUS KILLED BY HAMLET . . . . . . . . . . . 135 DROWNING OF OPHELIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 IACHIMO AND IMOGEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 IACHIMO IN THE TRUNK . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 IMOGEN STUPEFIED . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . 150 IMOGEN AND LEONATUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 THE THREE WITCHES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 FROM “MACBETH” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 LADY MACBETH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 KING AND QUEEN MACBETH . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 MACBETH AND MACDUFF FIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . 163 ANTIPHOLUS AND DROMIO . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170 LUCIANA AND ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE . . . . . . 175 THE GOLDSMITH AND ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE . . . 178 AEMILIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 ANTONIO SIGNS THE BOND . . . . . . . . . . . . 188 JESSICA LEAVING HOME . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 BASSANIO PARTS WITH THE RING . . . . . . . . . 192 POET READING TO TIMON . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 PAINTER SHOWING TIMON A PICTURE . . . . . . . 197 “NOTHING BUT AN EMPTY BOX” . . . . . . . . . . 200 TIMON GROWS SULLEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204 OTHELLO TELLING DESDEMONA HIS ADVENTURES . . . 211 OTHELLO . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . 213 THE DRINK OF WINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218 CASSIO GIVES THE HANDKERCHIEF . . . . . . . . 222 DESDEMONA WEEPING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 THE MUSIC MASTER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229 KATHARINE BOXES THE SERVANT'S EARS . . . . . . 232 PETRUCHIO FINDS FAULT WITH THE SUPPER . . . . 235 THE DUKE IN THE FRIAR'S DRESS . . . . . . . . 244 ISABELLA PLEADS WITH ANGELO . . . . . . . . . 247 “YOUR FRIAR IS NOW YOUR PRINCE” . . . . . . . 253 VALENTINE WRITES A LETTER FOR SILVIA . . . . . 258 SILVIA READING THE LETTER . . . . . . . . . . 259 THE SERENADE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263 ONE OF THE OUTLAWS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 HELENA AND BERTRAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272 HELENA AND THE KING . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276 READING BERTRAM'S LETTER . . . . . . . . . . . 281 HELENA AND THE WIDOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284LIST OF FOUR-COLOR PLATES PAGE WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece TITANIA AND THE CLOWN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 FERDINAND AND MIRANDA . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 PRINCE FLORIZEL AND PERDITA . . . .

. . . . . . 54 ROMEO AND JULIET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 IMOGEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 CHOOSING THE CASKET . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 PETRUCHIO AND KATHERINE . . . . . . . . . . . 228A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAMHermia and Lysander were lovers; but Hermia's father wished her to marryanother man, named Demetrius. Now, in Athens, where they lived, there was a wicked law, by which anygirl who refused to marry according to her father's wishes, might be putto death. Hermia's father was so angry with her for refusing to do ashe wished, that he actually brought her before the Duke of Athens toask that she might be killed, if she still refused to obey him. The Dukegave her four days to think about it, and, at the end of that time, ifshe still refused to marry Demetrius, she would have to die. Lysander of course was nearly mad with grief, and the best thing todo seemed to him for Hermia to run away to his aunt's house at a placebeyond the reach of that cruel law; and there he would come to her andmarry her. But before she started, she told her friend, Helena, what shewas going to do. Helena had been Demetrius' sweetheart long before his marriage withHermia had been thought of, and being very silly, like all jealouspeople, she could not see that it was not poor Hermia's fault thatDemetrius wished to marry her instead of his own lady, Helena. She knewthat if she told Demetrius that Hermia was going, as she was, to thewood outside Athens, he would follow her, “and I can follow him, andat least I shall see him,” she said to herself. So she went to him, andbetrayed her friend's secret. Now this wood where Lysander was to meet Hermia, and where the other twohad decided to follow them, was full of fairies, as most woods are, ifone only had the eyes to see them, and in this wood on this night werethe King and Queen of the fairies, Oberon and Titania. Now fairiesare very wise people, but now and then they can be quite as foolish asmortal folk. Oberon and Titania, who might have been as happy as thedays were long, had thrown away all their joy in a foolish quarrel. Theynever met without saying disagreeable things to each other, and scoldedeach other so dreadfully that all their little fairy followers, forfear, would creep into acorn cups and hide them there. So, instead of keeping one happy Court and dancing all night through inthe moonlight as is fairies' use, the King with his attendants wanderedthrough one part of the wood, while the Queen with hers kept state inanother. And the cause of all this trouble was a little Indian boy whomTitania had taken to be one of her followers. Oberon wanted the child tofollow him and be one of his fairy knights; but the Queen would not givehim up. On this night, in a mossy moonlit glade, the King and Queen of thefairies met. “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” said the King. “What! jealous, Oberon? ” answered the Queen. “You spoil everything withyour quarreling. Come, fairies, let us leave him. I am not friends withhim now. ”“It rests with you to make up the quarrel,” said the King. “Give me that little Indian boy, and I will again be your humble servantand suitor. ”“Set your mind at rest,” said the Queen. “Your whole fairy kingdom buysnot that boy from me. Come, fairies. ”And she and her train rode off down the moonbeams. “Well, go your ways,” said Oberon. “But I'll be even with you before youleave this wood. ”Then Oberon called his favorite fairy, Puck. Puck was the spirit ofmischief. He used to slip into the dairies and take the cream away, andget into the churn so that the butter would not come, and turn the beersour, and lead people out of their way on dark nights and then laugh atthem, and tumble people's stools from under them when they were going tosit down, and upset their hot ale over their chins when they were goingto drink. “Now,” said Oberon to this little sprite, “fetch me the flower calledLove-in-idleness. The juice of that little purple flower laid on theeyes of those who sleep will make them, when they wake, to love thefirst thing they see. I will put some of the juice of that flower onmy Titania's eyes, and when she wakes she will love the first thing shesees, were it lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, or meddling monkey, or abusy ape. ”While Puck was gone, Demetrius passed through the glade followed by poorHelena, and still she told him how she loved him and reminded him of allhis promises, and still he told her that he did not and could not loveher, and that his promises were nothing. Oberon was sorry for poorHelena, and when Puck returned with the flower, he bade him followDemetrius and put some of the juice on his eyes, so that he might loveHelena when he woke and looked on her, as much as she loved him. SoPuck set off, and wandering through the wood found, not Demetrius, butLysander, on whose eyes he put the juice; but when Lysander woke, he sawnot his own Hermia, but Helena, who was walking through the wood lookingfor the cruel Demetrius; and directly he saw her he loved her and lefthis own lady, under the spell of the purple flower. When Hermia woke she found Lysander gone, and wandered about the woodtrying to find him. Puck went back and told Oberon what he had done,and Oberon soon found that he had made a mistake, and set about lookingfor Demetrius, and having found him, put some of the juice on his eyes. And the first thing Demetrius saw when he woke was also Helena. So nowDemetrius and Lysander were both following her through the wood, and itwas Hermia's turn to follow her lover as Helena had done before. Theend of it was that Helena and Hermia began to quarrel, and Demetrius andLysander went off to fight. Oberon was very sorry to see his kind schemeto help these lovers turn out so badly. So he said to Puck--“These two young men are going to fight. You must overhang the nightwith drooping fog, and lead them so astray, that one will never find theother. When they are tired out, they will fall asleep. Then drop thisother herb on Lysander's eyes. That will give him his old sight and hisold love. Then each man will have the lady who loves him, and they willall think that this has been only a Midsummer Night's Dream. Then whenthis is done, all will be well with them. ”So Puck went and did as he was told, and when the two had fallen asleepwithout meeting each other, Puck poured the juice on Lysander's eyes,and said:-- “When thou wakest, Thou takest True delight In the sight Of thy former lady's eye: Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill. ”Meanwhile Oberon found Titania asleep on a bank where grew wild thyme,oxlips, and violets, and woodbine, musk-roses and eglantine. ThereTitania always slept a part of the night, wrapped in the enameled skinof a snake. Oberon stooped over her and laid the juice on her eyes,saying:-- “What thou seest when thou wake, Do it for thy true love take. ”Now, it happened that when Titania woke the first thing she saw was astupid clown, one of a party of players who had come out into the woodto rehearse their play. This clown had met with Puck, who had clappedan ass's head on his shoulders so that it looked as if it grew there. Directly Titania woke and saw this dreadful monster, she said, “Whatangel is this? Are you as wise as you are beautiful? ”“If I am wise enough to find my way out of this wood, that's enough forme,” said the foolish clown. “Do not desire to go out of the wood,” said Titania. The spell of thelove-juice was on her, and to her the clown seemed the most beautifuland delightful creature on all the earth. “I love you,” she went on. “Come with me, and I will give you fairies to attend on you. ”So she called four fairies, whose names were Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth,and Mustardseed. “You must attend this gentleman,” said the Queen. “Feed him withapricots and dewberries, purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries. Steal honey-bags for him from the bumble-bees, and with the wings ofpainted butterflies fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. ”“I will,” said one of the fairies, and all the others said, “I will. ”“Now, sit down with me,” said the Queen to the clown, “and let me strokeyour dear cheeks, and stick musk-roses in your smooth, sleek head, andkiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy. ”“Where's Peaseblossom? ” asked the clown with the ass's head. He did notcare much about the Queen's affection, but he was very proud of havingfairies to wait on him. “Ready,” said Peaseblossom. “Scratch my head, Peaseblossom,” said the clown. “Where's Cobweb? ” “Ready,” said Cobweb. “Kill me,” said the clown, “the red bumble-bee on the top of the thistleyonder, and bring me the honey-bag. Where's Mustardseed? ”“Ready,” said Mustardseed. “Oh, I want nothing,” said the clown. “Only just help Cobweb to scratch. I must go to the barber's, for methinks I am marvelous hairy about theface. ”“Would you like anything to eat? ” said the fairy Queen. “I should like some good dry oats,” said the clown--for his donkey'shead made him desire donkey's food--“and some hay to follow. ”“Shall some of my fairies fetch you new nuts from the squirrel's house? ” asked the Queen. “I'd rather have a handful or two of good dried peas,” said the clown. “But please don't let any of your people disturb me; I am going tosleep. ”Then said the Queen, “And I will wind thee in my arms. ”And so when Oberon came along he found his beautiful Queen lavishingkisses and endearments on a clown with a donkey's head. And before he released her from the enchantment, he persuaded her togive him the little Indian boy he so much desired to have. Then he tookpity on her, and threw some juice of the disenchanting flower on herpretty eyes; and then in a moment she saw plainly the donkey-headedclown she had been loving, and knew how foolish she had been. Oberon took off the ass's head from the clown, and left him to finishhis sleep with his own silly head lying on the thyme and violets. Thus all was made plain and straight again. Oberon and Titania lovedeach other more than ever. Demetrius thought of no one but Helena, andHelena had never had any thought of anyone but Demetrius. As for Hermia and Lysander, they were as loving a couple as you couldmeet in a day's march, even through a fairy wood. So the four mortal lovers went back to Athens and were married; and thefairy King and Queen live happily together in that very wood at thisvery day. THE TEMPESTProspero, the Duke of Milan, was a learned and studious man, who livedamong his books, leaving the management of his dukedom to his brotherAntonio, in whom indeed he had complete trust. But that trust wasill-rewarded, for Antonio wanted to wear the duke's crown himself, and,to gain his ends, would have killed his brother but for the love thepeople bore him. However, with the help of Prospero's great enemy,Alonso, King of Naples, he managed to get into his hands the dukedomwith all its honor, power, and riches. For they took Prospero to sea,and when they were far away from land, forced him into a little boatwith no tackle, mast, or sail. In their cruelty and hatred they put hislittle daughter, Miranda (not yet three years old), into the boat withhim, and sailed away, leaving them to their fate. But one among the courtiers with Antonio was true to his rightfulmaster, Prospero. To save the duke from his enemies was impossible, butmuch could be done to remind him of a subject's love. So this worthylord, whose name was Gonzalo, secretly placed in the boat some freshwater, provisions, and clothes, and what Prospero valued most of all,some of his precious books. The boat was cast on an island, and Prospero and his little one landedin safety. Now this island was enchanted, and for years had lain underthe spell of a fell witch, Sycorax, who had imprisoned in the trunksof trees all the good spirits she found there. She died shortly beforeProspero was cast on those shores, but the spirits, of whom Ariel wasthe chief, still remained in their prisons. Prospero was a great magician, for he had devoted himself almostentirely to the study of magic during the years in which he allowedhis brother to manage the affairs of Milan. By his art he set free theimprisoned spirits, yet kept them obedient to his will, and they weremore truly his subjects than his people in Milan had been. For hetreated them kindly as long as they did his bidding, and he exercisedhis power over them wisely and well. One creature alone he found itnecessary to treat with harshness: this was Caliban, the son of thewicked old witch, a hideous, deformed monster, horrible to look on, andvicious and brutal in all his habits. When Miranda was grown up into a maiden, sweet and fair to see, itchanced that Antonio and Alonso, with Sebastian, his brother, andFerdinand, his son, were at sea together with old Gonzalo, and theirship came near Prospero's island. Prospero, knowing they were there,raised by his art a great storm, so that even the sailors on board gavethemselves up for lost; and first among them all Prince Ferdinand leapedinto the sea, and, as his father thought in his grief, was drowned. ButAriel brought him safe ashore; and all the rest of the crew, althoughthey were washed overboard, were landed unhurt in different parts ofthe island, and the good ship herself, which they all thought had beenwrecked, lay at anchor in the harbor whither Ariel had brought her. Suchwonders could Prospero and his spirits perform. While yet the tempest was raging, Prospero showed his daughter the braveship laboring in the trough of the sea, and told her that it was filledwith living human beings like themselves. She, in pity of their lives,prayed him who had raised this storm to quell it. Then her father badeher to have no fear, for he intended to save every one of them. Then, for the first time, he told her the story of his life and hers,and that he had caused this storm to rise in order that his enemies,Antonio and Alonso, who were on board, might be delivered into hishands. When he had made an end of his story he charmed her into sleep, forAriel was at hand, and he had work for him to do. Ariel, who longedfor his complete freedom, grumbled to be kept in drudgery, but on beingthreateningly reminded of all the sufferings he had undergone whenSycorax ruled in the land, and of the debt of gratitude he owed to themaster who had made those sufferings to end, he ceased to complain, andpromised faithfully to do whatever Prospero might command. “Do so,” said Prospero, “and in two days I will discharge thee. ”Then he bade Ariel take the form of a water nymph and sent him in searchof the young prince. And Ariel, invisible to Ferdinand, hovered nearhim, singing the while-- “Come unto these yellow sands And then take hands: Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd (The wild waves whist), Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burden bear! ”And Ferdinand followed the magic singing, as the song changed to asolemn air, and the words brought grief to his heart, and tears to hiseyes, for thus they ran-- “Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes, Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell. Hark! now I hear them,-- ding dong bell! ”And so singing, Ariel led the spell-bound prince into the presence ofProspero and Miranda. Then, behold! all happened as Prospero desired. For Miranda, who had never, since she could first remember, seenany human being save her father, looked on the youthful prince withreverence in her eyes, and love in her secret heart. “I might call him,” she said, “a thing divine, for nothing natural Iever saw so noble! ”And Ferdinand, beholding her beauty with wonder and delight, exclaimed--“Most sure the goddess on whom these airs attend! ”Nor did he attempt to hide the passion which she inspired in him, forscarcely had they exchanged half a dozen sentences, before he vowed tomake her his queen if she were willing. But Prospero, though secretlydelighted, pretended wrath. “You come here as a spy,” he said to Ferdinand. “I will manacle yourneck and feet together, and you shall feed on fresh water mussels,withered roots and husk, and have sea-water to drink. Follow. ”“No,” said Ferdinand, and drew his sword. But on the instant Prosperocharmed him so that he stood there like a statue, still as stone; andMiranda in terror prayed her father to have mercy on her lover. But heharshly refused her, and made Ferdinand follow him to his cell. Therehe set the Prince to work, making him remove thousands of heavy logs oftimber and pile them up; and Ferdinand patiently obeyed, and thought histoil all too well repaid by the sympathy of the sweet Miranda. She in very pity would have helped him in his hard work, but he wouldnot let her, yet he could not keep from her the secret of his love, andshe, hearing it, rejoiced and promised to be his wife. Then Prospero released him from his servitude, and glad at heart, hegave his consent to their marriage. “Take her,” he said, “she is thine own. ”In the meantime, Antonio and Sebastian in another part of the islandwere plotting the murder of Alonso, the King of Naples, for Ferdinandbeing dead, as they thought, Sebastian would succeed to the throne onAlonso's death. And they would have carried out their wicked purposewhile their victim was asleep, but that Ariel woke him in good time. Many tricks did Ariel play them. Once he set a banquet before them, andjust as they were going to fall to, he appeared to them amid thunderand lightning in the form of a harpy, and immediately the banquetdisappeared. Then Ariel upbraided them with their sins and vanished too. Prospero by his enchantments drew them all to the grove without hiscell, where they waited, trembling and afraid, and now at last bitterlyrepenting them of their sins. Prospero determined to make one last use of his magic power, “And then,” said he, “I'll break my staff and deeper than did ever plummet soundI'll drown my book. ”So he made heavenly music to sound in the air, and appeared to them inhis proper shape as the Duke of Milan. Because they repented, heforgave them and told them the story of his life since they had cruellycommitted him and his baby daughter to the mercy of wind and waves. Alonso, who seemed sorriest of them all for his past crimes, lamentedthe loss of his heir. But Prospero drew back a curtain and showed themFerdinand and Miranda playing at chess. Great was Alonso's joy to greethis loved son again, and when he heard that the fair maid with whomFerdinand was playing was Prospero's daughter, and that the young folkshad plighted their troth, he said--“Give me your hands, let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart thatdoth not wish you joy.

”So all ended happily. The ship was safe in the harbor, and next day theyall set sail for Naples, where Ferdinand and Miranda were to be married. Ariel gave them calm seas and auspicious gales; and many were therejoicings at the wedding. Then Prospero, after many years of absence, went back to his owndukedom, where he was welcomed with great joy by his faithful subjects. He practiced the arts of magic no more, but his life was happy, and notonly because he had found his own again, but chiefly because, when hisbitterest foes who had done him deadly wrong lay at his mercy, he tookno vengeance on them, but nobly forgave them. As for Ariel, Prospero made him free as air, so that he could wanderwhere he would, and sing with a light heart his sweet song-- “Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer, merrily: Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. ”AS YOU LIKE ITThere was once a wicked Duke named Frederick, who took the dukedom thatshould have belonged to his brother, sending him into exile. Hisbrother went into the Forest of Arden, where he lived the life of a boldforester, as Robin Hood did in Sherwood Forest in merry England. The banished Duke's daughter, Rosalind, remained with Celia, Frederick'sdaughter, and the two loved each other more than most sisters. One daythere was a wrestling match at Court, and Rosalind and Celia went to seeit. Charles, a celebrated wrestler, was there, who had killed many menin contests of this kind. Orlando, the young man he was to wrestle with,was so slender and youthful, that Rosalind and Celia thought he wouldsurely be killed, as others had been; so they spoke to him, and askedhim not to attempt so dangerous an adventure; but the only effect oftheir words was to make him wish more to come off well in the encounter,so as to win praise from such sweet ladies. Orlando, like Rosalind's father, was being kept out of his inheritanceby his brother, and was so sad at his brother's unkindness that, untilhe saw Rosalind, he did not care much whether he lived or died. But nowthe sight of the fair Rosalind gave him strength and courage, so thathe did marvelously, and at last, threw Charles to such a tune, that thewrestler had to be carried off the ground. Duke Frederick was pleasedwith his courage, and asked his name. “My name is Orlando, and I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys,” said the young man. Now Sir Rowland de Boys, when he was alive, had been a good friend tothe banished Duke, so that Frederick heard with regret whose son Orlandowas, and would not befriend him. But Rosalind was delighted to hear thatthis handsome young stranger was the son of her father's old friend, andas they were going away, she turned back more than once to say anotherkind word to the brave young man. “Gentleman,” she said, giving him a chain from her neck, “wear this forme. I could give more, but that my hand lacks means. ”Rosalind and Celia, when they were alone, began to talk about thehandsome wrestler, and Rosalind confessed that she loved him at firstsight. “Come, come,” said Celia, “wrestle with thy affections. ”“Oh,” answered Rosalind, “they take the part of a better wrestler thanmyself. Look, here comes the Duke. ”“With his eyes full of anger,” said Celia. “You must leave the Court at once,” he said to Rosalind. “Why? ” sheasked. “Never mind why,” answered the Duke, “you are banished. If within tendays you are found within twenty miles of my Court, you die. ”So Rosalind set out to seek her father, the banished Duke, in the Forestof Arden. Celia loved her too much to let her go alone, and as it wasrather a dangerous journey, Rosalind, being the taller, dressed up asa young countryman, and her cousin as a country girl, and Rosalind saidthat she would be called Ganymede, and Celia, Aliena. They were verytired when at last they came to the Forest of Arden, and as they weresitting on the grass a countryman passed that way, and Ganymedeasked him if he could get them food. He did so, and told them thata shepherd's flocks and house were to be sold. They bought these andsettled down as shepherd and shepherdess in the forest. In the meantime, Oliver having sought to take his brother Orlando'slife, Orlando also wandered into the forest, and there met with therightful Duke, and being kindly received, stayed with him. Now, Orlandocould think of nothing but Rosalind, and he went about the forestcarving her name on trees, and writing love sonnets and hanging them onthe bushes, and there Rosalind and Celia found them. One day Orlando metthem, but he did not know Rosalind in her boy's clothes, though he likedthe pretty shepherd youth, because he fancied a likeness in him to herhe loved. “There is a foolish lover,” said Rosalind, “who haunts these woods andhangs sonnets on the trees. If I could find him, I would soon cure himof his folly. ”Orlando confessed that he was the foolish lover, and Rosalind said--“Ifyou will come and see me every day, I will pretend to be Rosalind, and Iwill take her part, and be wayward and contrary, as is the way of women,till I make you ashamed of your folly in loving her. ”And so every day he went to her house, and took a pleasure in saying toher all the pretty things he would have said to Rosalind; and she hadthe fine and secret joy of knowing that all his love-words came to theright ears. Thus many days passed pleasantly away. One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man asleepon the ground, and that there was a lioness crouching near, waiting forthe man who was asleep to wake: for they say that lions will not prey onanything that is dead or sleeping. Then Orlando looked at the man, andsaw that it was his wicked brother, Oliver, who had tried to take hislife. He fought with the lioness and killed her, and saved his brother'slife. While Orlando was fighting the lioness, Oliver woke to see his brother,whom he had treated so badly, saving him from a wild beast at the riskof his own life. This made him repent of his wickedness, and he beggedOrlando's pardon, and from thenceforth they were dear brothers. Thelioness had wounded Orlando's arm so much, that he could not go on tosee the shepherd, so he sent his brother to ask Ganymede to come to him. Oliver went and told the whole story to Ganymede and Aliena, and Alienawas so charmed with his manly way of confessing his faults, that shefell in love with him at once. But when Ganymede heard of the dangerOrlando had been in she fainted; and when she came to herself, saidtruly enough, “I should have been a woman by right. ”Oliver went back to his brother and told him all this, saying, “I loveAliena so well that I will give up my estates to you and marry her, andlive here as a shepherd. ”“Let your wedding be to-morrow,” said Orlando, “and I will ask the Dukeand his friends. ”When Orlando told Ganymede how his brother was to be married on themorrow, he added: “Oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into happinessthrough another man's eyes. ”Then answered Rosalind, still in Ganymede's dress and speaking with hisvoic--“If you do love Rosalind so near the heart, then when your brothermarries Aliena, shall you marry her. ”Now the next day the Duke and his followers, and Orlando, and Oliver,and Aliena, were all gathered together for the wedding. Then Ganymede came in and said to the Duke, “If I bring in your daughterRosalind, will you give her to Orlando here? ” “That I would,” said theDuke, “if I had all kingdoms to give with her. ”“And you say you will have her when I bring her? ” she said to Orlando. “That would I,” he answered, “were I king of all kingdoms. ”Then Rosalind and Celia went out, and Rosalind put on her pretty woman'sclothes again, and after a while came back. She turned to her father--“I give myself to you, for I am yours. ” “Ifthere be truth in sight,” he said, “you are my daughter. ”Then she said to Orlando, “I give myself to you, for I am yours. ” “Ifthere be truth in sight,” he said, “you are my Rosalind. ”“I will have no father if you be not he,” she said to the Duke, and toOrlando, “I will have no husband if you be not he. ”So Orlando and Rosalind were married, and Oliver and Celia, and theylived happy ever after, returning with the Duke to the kingdom. ForFrederick had been shown by a holy hermit the wickedness of his ways,and so gave back the dukedom of his brother, and himself went into amonastery to pray for forgiveness. The wedding was a merry one, in the mossy glades of the forest. Ashepherd and shepherdess who had been friends with Rosalind, when shewas herself disguised as a shepherd, were married on the same day, andall with such pretty feastings and merrymakings as could be nowherewithin four walls, but only in the beautiful green wood. THE WINTER'S TALELeontes was the King of Sicily, and his dearest friend was Polixenes,King of Bohemia. They had been brought up together, and only separatedwhen they reached man's estate and each had to go and rule overhis kingdom. After many years, when each was married and had a son,Polixenes came to stay with Leontes in Sicily. Leontes was a violent-tempered man and rather silly, and he took it intohis stupid head that his wife, Hermione, liked Polixenes better thanshe did him, her own husband. When once he had got this into his head,nothing could put it out; and he ordered one of his lords, Camillo, toput a poison in Polixenes' wine. Camillo tried to dissuade him from thiswicked action, but finding he was not to be moved, pretended to consent. He then told Polixenes what was proposed against him, and they fled fromthe Court of Sicily that night, and returned to Bohemia, where Camillolived on as Polixenes' friend and counselor. Leontes threw the Queen into prison; and her son, the heir to thethrone, died of sorrow to see his mother so unjustly and cruellytreated. While the Queen was in prison she had a little baby, and a friend ofhers, named Paulina, had the baby dressed in its best, and took it toshow the King, thinking that the sight of his helpless little daughterwould soften his heart towards his dear Queen, who had never done himany wrong, and who loved him a great deal more than he deserved; but theKing would not look at the baby, and ordered Paulina's husband to takeit away in a ship, and leave it in the most desert and dreadful placehe could find, which Paulina's husband, very much against his will, wasobliged to do. Then the poor Queen was brought up to be tried for treason in preferringPolixenes to her King; but really she had never thought of anyone exceptLeontes, her husband. Leontes had sent some messengers to ask the god,Apollo, whether he was not right in his cruel thoughts of the Queen. Buthe had not patience to wait till they came back, and so it happened thatthey arrived in the middle of the trial. The Oracle said--“Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject,Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the King shall live without an heir, ifthat which is lost be not found. ”Then a man came and told them that the little Prince was dead. Thepoor Queen, hearing this, fell down in a fit; and then the King saw howwicked and wrong he had been. He ordered Paulina and the ladies who werewith the Queen to take her away, and try to restore her. But Paulinacame back in a few moments, and told the King that Hermione was dead. Now Leontes' eyes were at last opened to his folly. His Queen was dead,and the little daughter who might have been a comfort to him he had sentaway to be the prey of wolves and kites. Life had nothing left for himnow. He gave himself up to his grief, and passed in any sad years inprayer and remorse. The baby Princess was left on the seacoast of Bohemia, the very kingdomwhere Polixenes reigned. Paulina's husband never went home to tellLeontes where he had left the baby; for as he was going back to theship, he met a bear and was torn to pieces. So there was an end of him. But the poor deserted little baby was found by a shepherd. She wasrichly dressed, and had with her some jewels, and a paper was pinned toher cloak, saying that her name was Perdita, and that she came of nobleparents. The shepherd, being a kind-hearted man, took home the little baby tohis wife, and they brought it up as their own child. She had no moreteaching than a shepherd's child generally has, but she inherited fromher royal mother many graces and charms, so that she was quite differentfrom the other maidens in the village where she lived. One day Prince Florizel, the son of the good King of Bohemia, wasbunting near the shepherd's house and saw Perdita, now grown up to acharming woman. He made friends with the shepherd, not telling him thathe was the Prince, but saying that his name was Doricles, and that hewas a private gentleman; and then, being deeply in love with the prettyPerdita, he came almost daily to see her. The King could not understand what it was that took his son nearly everyday from home; so he set people to watch him, and then found out thatthe heir of the King of Bohemia was in love with Perdita, the prettyshepherd girl. Polixenes, wishing to see whether this was true,disguised himself, and went with the faithful Camillo, in disguisetoo, to the old shepherd's house. They arrived at the feast ofsheep-shearing, and, though strangers, they were made very welcome. There was dancing going on, and a peddler was selling ribbons and lacesand gloves, which the young men bought for their sweethearts. Florizel and Perdita, however, were taking no part in this gay scene,but sat quietly together talking. The King noticed the charming mannersand great beauty of Perdita, never guessing that she was the daughter ofhis old friend, Leontes. He said to Camillo--“This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the greensward. Nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater thanherself--too noble for this place. ”And Camillo answered, “In truth she is the Queen of curds and cream. ”But when Florizel, who did not recognize his father, called upon thestrangers to witness his betrothal with the pretty shepherdess, the Kingmade himself known and forbade the marriage, adding that if ever she sawFlorizel again, he would kill her and her old father, the shepherd; andwith that he left them. But Camillo remained behind, for he was charmedwith Perdita, and wished to befriend her. Camillo had long known how sorry Leontes was for that foolish madness ofhis, and he longed to go back to Sicily to see his old master. He nowproposed that the young people should go there and claim the protectionof Leontes. So they went, and the shepherd went with them, takingPerdita's jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper he had found pinned toher cloak. Leontes received them with great kindness. He was very polite to PrinceFlorizel, but all his looks were for Perdita. He saw how much she waslike the Queen Hermione, and said again and again--“Such a sweet creature my daughter might have been, if I had not cruellysent her from me. ”When the old shepherd heard that the King had lost a baby daughter, whohad been left upon the coast of Bohemia, he felt sure that Perdita, thechild he had reared, must be the King's daughter, and when he toldhis tale and showed the jewels and the paper, the King perceived thatPerdita was indeed his long-lost child. He welcomed her with joy, andrewarded the good shepherd. Polixenes had hastened after his son to prevent his marriage withPerdita, but when he found that she was the daughter of his old friend,he was only too glad to give his consent. Yet Leontes could not be happy. He remembered how his fair Queen,who should have been at his side to share his joy in his daughter'shappiness, was dead through his unkindness, and he could say nothing fora long time but--“Oh, thy mother! thy mother! ” and ask forgiveness of the King ofBohemia, and then kiss his daughter again, and then the Prince Florizel,and then thank the old shepherd for all his goodness. Then Paulina, who had been high all these years in the King's favor,because of her kindness to the dead Queen Hermione, said--“I have astatue made in the likeness of the dead Queen, a piece many years indoing, and performed by the rare Italian master, Giulio Romano. I keepit in a private house apart, and there, ever since you lost your Queen,I have gone twice or thrice a day. Will it please your Majesty to go andsee the statue? ”So Leontes and Polixenes, and Florizel and Perdita, with Camillo andtheir attendants, went to Paulina's house where there was a heavy purplecurtain screening off an alcove; and Paulina, with her hand on thecurtain, said--“She was peerless when she was alive, and I do believe that her deadlikeness excels whatever yet you have looked upon, or that the handof man hath done. Therefore I keep it lonely, apart. But here itis--behold, and say, 'tis well. ”And with that she drew back the curtain and showed them the statue. TheKing gazed and gazed on the beautiful statue of his dead wife, but saidnothing. “I like your silence,” said Paulina; “it the more shows off your wonder. But speak, is it not like her? ”“It is almost herself,” said the King, “and yet, Paulina, Hermione wasnot so much wrinkled, nothing so old as this seems. ”“Oh, not by much,” said Polixenes. “Al,” said Paulina, “that is the cleverness of the carver, who shows herto us as she would have been had she lived till now. ”And still Leontes looked at the statue and could not take his eyes away. “If I had known,” said Paulina, “that this poor image would so havestirred your grief, and love, I would not have shown it to you. ”But he only answered, “Do not draw the curtain. ”“No, you must not look any longer,” said Paulina, “or you will think itmoves. ”“Let be! let be! ” said the King. “Would you not think it breathed? ”“I will draw the curtain,” said Paulina; “you will think it livespresently. ”“Ah, sweet Paulina,” said Leontes, “make me to think so twenty yearstogether. ”“If you can bear it,” said Paulina, “I can make the statue move, makeit come down and take you by the hand. Only you would think it was bywicked magic. ”“Whatever you can make her do, I am content to look on,” said the King. And then, all folks there admiring and beholding, the statue moved fromits pedestal, and came down the steps and put its arms round the King'sneck, and he held her face and kissed her many times, for this wasno statue, but the real living Queen Hermione herself. She had livedhidden, by Paulina's kindness, all these years, and would not discoverherself to her husband, though she knew he had repented, because shecould not quite forgive him till she knew what had become of her littlebaby. Now that Perdita was found, she forgave her husband everything, and itwas like a new and beautiful marriage to them, to be together once more. Florizel and Perdita were married and lived long and happily. To Leontes his many years of suffering were well paid for in the momentwhen, after long grief and pain, he felt the arms of his true lovearound him once again. KING LEARKing Lear was old and tired. He was aweary of the business of hiskingdom, and wished only to end his days quietly near his threedaughters. Two of his daughters were married to the Dukes of Albanyand Cornwall; and the Duke of Burgundy and the King of France were bothsuitors for the hand of Cordelia, his youngest daughter. Lear called his three daughters together, and told them that he proposedto divide his kingdom between them. “But first,” said he, “I should liketo know much you love me. ”Goneril, who was really a very wicked woman, and did not love her fatherat all, said she loved him more than words could say; she loved himdearer than eyesight, space or liberty, more than life, grace, health,beauty, and honor. “I love you as much as my sister and more,” professed Regan, “since Icare for nothing but my father's love. ”Lear was very much pleased with Regan's professions, and turned to hisyoungest daughter, Cordelia. “Now, our joy, though last not least,” hesaid, “the best part of my kingdom have I kept for you. What can yousay? ”“Nothing, my lord,” answered Cordelia. “Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again,” said the King. And Cordelia answered, “I love your Majesty according to my duty--nomore, no less. ”And this she said, because she was disgusted with the way in which hersisters professed love, when really they had not even a right sense ofduty to their old father. “I am your daughter,” she went on, “and you have brought me up and lovedme, and I return you those duties back as are right and fit, obey you,love you, and most honor you. ”Lear, who loved Cordelia best, had wished her to make more extravagantprofessions of love than her sisters. “Go,” he said, “be for ever astranger to my heart and me. ”The Earl of Kent, one of Lear's favorite courtiers and captains, triedto say a word for Cordelia's sake, but Lear would not listen. He dividedthe kingdom between Goneril and Regan, and told them that he should onlykeep a hundred knights at arms, and would live with his daughters byturns. When the Duke of Burgundy knew that Cordelia would have no share of thekingdom, he gave up his courtship of her. But the King of France waswiser, and said, “Thy dowerless daughter, King, is Queen of us--of ours,and our fair France. ”“Take her, take her,” said the King; “for I will never see that face ofhers again. ”So Cordelia became Queen of France, and the Earl of Kent, for havingventured to take her part, was banished from the kingdom. The King nowwent to stay with his daughter Goneril, who had got everything from herfather that he had to give, and now began to grudge even the hundredknights that he had reserved for himself. She was harsh and undutifulto him, and her servants either refused to obey his orders or pretendedthat they did not hear them. Now the Earl of Kent, when he was banished, made as though he wouldgo into another country, but instead he came back in the disguise ofa servingman and took service with the King. The King had now twofriends--the Earl of Kent, whom he only knew as his servant, and hisFool, who was faithful to him. Goneril told her father plainly that hisknights only served to fill her Court with riot and feasting; and so shebegged him only to keep a few old men about him such as himself. “My train are men who know all parts of duty,” said Lear. “Goneril, Iwill not trouble you further--yet I have left another daughter. ”And his horses being saddled, he set out with his followers for thecastle of Regan. But she, who had formerly outdone her sister inprofessions of attachment to the King, now seemed to outdo her inundutiful conduct, saying that fifty knights were too many to wait onhim, and Goneril (who had hurried thither to prevent Regan showing anykindness to the old King) said five were too many, since her servantscould wait on him. Then when Lear saw that what they really wanted was to drive him away,he left them. It was a wild and stormy night, and he wandered about theheath half mad with misery, and with no companion but the poor Fool. But presently his servant, the good Earl of Kent, met him, and at lastpersuaded him to lie down in a wretched little hovel. At daybreak theEarl of Kent removed his royal master to Dover, and hurried to the Courtof France to tell Cordelia what had happened. Cordelia's husband gave her an army and with it she landed at Dover. Here she found poor King Lear, wandering about the fields, wearing acrown of nettles and weeds. They brought him back and fed and clothedhim, and Cordelia came to him and kissed him. “You must bear with me,” said Lear; “forget and forgive. I am old andfoolish. ”And now he knew at last which of his children it was that had loved himbest, and who was worthy of his love. Goneril and Regan joined their armies to fight Cordelia's army, and weresuccessful; and Cordelia and her father were thrown into prison. ThenGoneril's husband, the Duke of Albany, who was a good man, and had notknown how wicked his wife was, heard the truth of the whole story; andwhen Goneril found that her husband knew her for the wicked woman shewas, she killed herself, having a little time before given a deadlypoison to her sister, Regan, out of a spirit of jealousy. But they had arranged that Cordelia should be hanged in prison, andthough the Duke of Albany sent messengers at once, it was too late. Theold King came staggering into the tent of the Duke of Albany, carryingthe body of his dear daughter Cordelia, in his arms. And soon after, with words of love for her upon his lips, he fell withher still in his arms, and died. TWELFTH NIGHTOrsino, the Duke of Illyria, was deeply in love with a beautifulCountess named Olivia. Yet was all his love in vain, for she disdainedhis suit; and when her brother died, she sent back a messenger from theDuke, bidding him tell his master that for seven years she would notlet the very air behold her face, but that, like a nun, she would walkveiled; and all this for the sake of a dead brother's love, which shewould keep fresh and lasting in her sad remembrance. The Duke longed for someone to whom he could tell his sorrow, and repeatover and over again the story of his love. And chance brought him such acompanion. For about this time a goodly ship was wrecked on the Illyriancoast, and among those who reached land in safety were the captain anda fair young maid, named Viola. But she was little grateful for beingrescued from the perils of the sea, since she feared that her twinbrother was drowned, Sebastian, as dear to her as the heart in herbosom, and so like her that, but for the difference in their manner ofdress, one could hardly be told from the other. The captain, for hercomfort, told her that he had seen her brother bind himself “to a strongmast that lived upon the sea,” and that thus there was hope that hemight be saved. Viola now asked in whose country she was, and learning that the youngDuke Orsino ruled there, and was as noble in his nature as in his name,she decided to disguise herself in male attire, and seek for employmentwith him as a page. In this she succeeded, and now from day to day she had to listen to thestory of Orsino's love. At first she sympathized very truly with him,but soon her sympathy grew to love. At last it occurred to Orsino thathis hopeless love-suit might prosper better if he sent this pretty ladto woo Olivia for him. Viola unwillingly went on this errand, but whenshe came to the house, Malvolio, Olivia's steward, a vain, officiousman, sick, as his mistress told him, of self-love, forbade the messengeradmittance. Viola, however (who was now called Cesario), refused to take any denial,and vowed to have speech with the Countess. Olivia, hearing how herinstructions were defied and curious to see this daring youth, said,“We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy. ”When Viola was admitted to her presence and the servants had been sentaway, she listened patiently to the reproaches which this bold messengerfrom the Duke poured upon her, and listening she fell in love with thesupposed Cesario; and when Cesario had gone, Olivia longed to send somelove-token after him. So, calling Malvolio, she bade him follow the boy. “He left this ring behind him,” she said, taking one from her finger. “Tell him I will none of it. ”Malvolio did as he was bid, and then Viola, who of course knew perfectlywell that she had left no ring behind her, saw with a woman's quicknessthat Olivia loved her. Then she went back to the Duke, very sad at heartfor her lover, and for Olivia, and for herself. It was but cold comfort she could give Orsino, who now sought to easethe pangs of despised love by listening to sweet music, while Cesariostood by his side. “Ah,” said the Duke to his page that night, “you too have been in love. ”“A little,” answered Viola. “What kind of woman is it? ” he asked. “Of your complexion,” she answered.

“What years, i' faith? ” was his next question. To this came the pretty answer, “About your years, my lord. ”“Too old, by Heaven! ” cried the Duke. “Let still the woman take an elderthan herself. ”And Viola very meekly said, “I think it well, my lord. ”By and by Orsino begged Cesario once more to visit Olivia and to pleadhis love-suit. But she, thinking to dissuade him, said--“If some lady loved you as you love Olivia? ”“Ah! that cannot be,” said the Duke. “But I know,” Viola went on, “what love woman may have for a man. Myfather had a daughter loved a man, as it might be,” she added blushing,“perhaps, were I a woman, I should love your lordship. ”“And what is her history? ” he asked. “A blank, my lord,” Viola answered. “She never told her love, but letconcealment like a worm in the bud feed on her damask cheek: shepined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat, likePatience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? ”“But died thy sister of her love, my boy? ” the Duke asked; and Viola,who had all the time been telling her own love for him in this prettyfashion, said--“I am all the daughters my father has and all the brothers-- Sir, shallI go to the lady? ”“To her in haste,” said the Duke, at once forgetting all about thestory, “and give her this jewel. ”So Viola went, and this time poor Olivia was unable to hide her love,and openly confessed it with such passionate truth, that Viola left herhastily, saying--“Nevermore will I deplore my master's tears to you. ”But in vowing this, Viola did not know the tender pity she would feelfor other's suffering. So when Olivia, in the violence of her love,sent a messenger, praying Cesario to visit her once more, Cesario had noheart to refuse the request. But the favors which Olivia bestowed upon this mere page aroused thejealousy of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a foolish, rejected lover of hers, whoat that time was staying at her house with her merry old uncle Sir Toby. This same Sir Toby dearly loved a practical joke, and knowing Sir Andrewto be an arrant coward, he thought that if he could bring off a duelbetween him and Cesario, there would be rare sport indeed. So he inducedSir Andrew to send a challenge, which he himself took to Cesario. Thepoor page, in great terror, said--“I will return again to the house, I am no fighter. ”“Back you shall not to the house,” said Sir Toby, “unless you fight mefirst. ”And as he looked a very fierce old gentleman, Viola thought it best toawait Sir Andrew's coming; and when he at last made his appearance, ina great fright, if the truth had been known, she tremblingly drew hersword, and Sir Andrew in like fear followed her example. Happily forthem both, at this moment some officers of the Court came on the scene,and stopped the intended duel. Viola gladly made off with what speed shemight, while Sir Toby called after her--“A very paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare! ”Now, while these things were happening, Sebastian had escaped allthe dangers of the deep, and had landed safely in Illyria, where hedetermined to make his way to the Duke's Court. On his way thither hepassed Olivia's house just as Viola had left it in such a hurry, andwhom should he meet but Sir Andrew and Sir Toby. Sir Andrew, mistakingSebastian for the cowardly Cesario, took his courage in both hands, andwalking up to him struck him, saying, “There's for you. ”“Why, there's for you; and there, and there! ” said Sebastian, bittingback a great deal harder, and again and again, till Sir Toby came tothe rescue of his friend. Sebastian, however, tore himself free from SirToby's clutches, and drawing his sword would have fought them both, butthat Olivia herself, having heard of the quarrel, came running in, andwith many reproaches sent Sir Toby and his friend away. Then turningto Sebastian, whom she too thought to be Cesario, she besought him withmany a pretty speech to come into the house with her. Sebastian, half dazed and all delighted with her beauty and grace,readily consented, and that very day, so great was Olivia's baste,they were married before she had discovered that he was not Cesario, orSebastian was quite certain whether or not he was in a dream. Meanwhile Orsino, hearing how ill Cesario sped with Olivia, visited herhimself, taking Cesario with him. Olivia met them both before herdoor, and seeing, as she thought, her husband there, reproached him forleaving her, while to the Duke she said that his suit was as fat andwholesome to her as howling after music. “Still so cruel? ” said Orsino. “Still so constant,” she answered. Then Orsino's anger growing to cruelty, he vowed that, to be revenged onher, he would kill Cesario, whom he knew she loved. “Come, boy,” he saidto the page. And Viola, following him as he moved away, said, “I, to do you rest, athousand deaths would die. ”A great fear took hold on Olivia, and she cried aloud, “Cesario,husband, stay! ”“Her husband? ” asked the Duke angrily. “No, my lord, not I,” said Viola. “Call forth the holy father,” cried Olivia. And the priest who had married Sebastian and Olivia, coming in, declaredCesario to be the bridegroom. “O thou dissembling cub! ” the Duke exclaimed. “Farewell, and take her,but go where thou and I henceforth may never meet. ”At this moment Sir Andrew came up with bleeding crown, complaining thatCesario had broken his head, and Sir Toby's as well. “I never hurt you,” said Viola, very positively; “you drew your sword onme, but I bespoke you fair, and hurt you not. ”Yet, for all her protesting, no one there believed her; but all theirthoughts were on a sudden changed to wonder, when Sebastian came in. “I am sorry, madam,” he said to his wife, “I have hurt your kinsman. Pardon me, sweet, even for the vows we made each other so late ago. ”“One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons! ” cried the Duke,looking first at Viola, and then at Sebastian. “An apple cleft in two,” said one who knew Sebastian, “is not more twinthan these two creatures. Which is Sebastian? ”“I never had a brother,” said Sebastian. “I had a sister, whom the blindwaves and surges have devoured. ” “Were you a woman,” he said to Viola,“I should let my tears fall upon your cheek, and say, 'Thrice welcome,drowned Viola! '”Then Viola, rejoicing to see her dear brother alive, confessed that shewas indeed his sister, Viola. As she spoke, Orsino felt the pity that isakin to love. “Boy,” he said, “thou hast said to me a thousand times thou nevershouldst love woman like to me. ”“And all those sayings will I overswear,” Viola replied, “and all thoseswearings keep true. ”“Give me thy hand,” Orsino cried in gladness. “Thou shalt be my wife,and my fancy's queen. ”Thus was the gentle Viola made happy, while Olivia found in Sebastiana constant lover, and a good husband, and he in her a true and lovingwife. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHINGIn Sicily is a town called Messina, which is the scene of a curiousstorm in a teacup that raged several hundred years ago. It began with sunshine. Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon, in Spain, hadgained so complete a victory over his foes that the very land whencethey came is forgotten. Feeling happy and playful after the fatigues ofwar, Don Pedro came for a holiday to Messina, and in his suite were hisstepbrother Don John and two young Italian lords, Benedick and Claudio. Benedick was a merry chatterbox, who had determined to live a bachelor. Claudio, on the other hand, no sooner arrived at Messina than he fell inlove with Hero, the daughter of Leonato, Governor of Messina. One July day, a perfumer called Borachio was burning dried lavender ina musty room in Leonato's house, when the sound of conversation floatedthrough the open window. “Give me your candid opinion of Hero,” Claudio, asked, and Borachiosettled himself for comfortable listening. “Too short and brown for praise,” was Benedick's reply; “but alter hercolor or height, and you spoil her. ”“In my eyes she is the sweetest of women,” said Claudio. “Not in mine,” retorted Benedick, “and I have no need for glasses. Sheis like the last day of December compared with the first of May if youset her beside her cousin. Unfortunately, the Lady Beatrice is a fury. ”Beatrice was Leonato's niece. She amused herself by saying witty andsevere things about Benedick, who called her Dear Lady Disdain. Shewas wont to say that she was born under a dancing star, and could nottherefore be dull. Claudio and Benedick were still talking when Don Pedro came up and saidgood-humoredly, “Well, gentlemen, what's the secret? ”“I am longing,” answered Benedick, “for your Grace to command me totell. ”“I charge you, then, on your allegiance to tell me,” said Don Pedro,falling in with his humor. “I can be as dumb as a mute,” apologized Benedick to Claudio, “but hisGrace commands my speech. ” To Don Pedro he said, “Claudio is in lovewith Hero, Leonato's short daughter. ”Don Pedro was pleased, for he admired Hero and was fond of Claudio. WhenBenedick had departed, he said to Claudio, “Be steadfast in your lovefor Hero, and I will help you to win her. To-night her father gives amasquerade, and I will pretend I am Claudio, and tell her how Claudioloves her, and if she be pleased, I will go to her father and ask hisconsent to your union. ”Most men like to do their own wooing, but if you fall in love with aGovernor's only daughter, you are fortunate if you can trust a prince toplead for you. Claudio then was fortunate, but he was unfortunate as well, for hehad an enemy who was outwardly a friend. This enemy was Don Pedro'sstepbrother Don John, who was jealous of Claudio because Don Pedropreferred him to Don John. It was to Don John that Borachio came with the interesting conversationwhich he had overheard. “I shall have some fun at that masquerade myself,” said Don John whenBorachio ceased speaking. On the night of the masquerade, Don Pedro, masked and pretending he wasClaudio, asked Hero if he might walk with her. They moved away together, and Don John went up to Claudio and said,“Signor Benedick, I believe? ” “The same,” fibbed Claudio. “I should be much obliged then,” said Don John, “if you would use yourinfluence with my brother to cure him of his love for Hero. She isbeneath him in rank. ”“How do you know he loves her? ” inquired Claudio. “I heard him swear his affection,” was the reply, and Borachio chimed inwith, “So did I too. ”Claudio was then left to himself, and his thought was that his Princehad betrayed him. “Farewell, Hero,” he muttered; “I was a fool to trustto an agent. ”Meanwhile Beatrice and Benedick (who was masked) were having a briskexchange of opinions. “Did Benedick ever make you laugh? ” asked she. “Who is Benedick? ” he inquired. “A Prince's jester,” replied Beatrice, and she spoke so sharply that “Iwould not marry her,” he declared afterwards, “if her estate were theGarden of Eden. ”But the principal speaker at the masquerade was neither Beatrice norBenedick. It was Don Pedro, who carried out his plan to the letter, andbrought the light back to Claudio's face in a twinkling, by appearingbefore him with Leonato and Hero, and saying, “Claudio, when would youlike to go to church? ”“To-morrow,” was the prompt answer. “Time goes on crutches till I marryHero. ”“Give her a week, my dear son,” said Leonato, and Claudio's heartthumped with joy. “And now,” said the amiable Don Pedro, “we must find a wife for SignorBenedick. It is a task for Hercules. ”“I will help you,” said Leonato, “if I have to sit up ten nights. ”Then Hero spoke. “I will do what I can, my lord, to find a good husbandfor Beatrice. ”Thus, with happy laughter, ended the masquerade which had given Claudioa lesson for nothing. Borachio cheered up Don John by laying a plan before him with which hewas confident he could persuade both Claudio and Don Pedro that Hero wasa fickle girl who had two strings to her bow. Don John agreed to thisplan of hate. Don Pedro, on the other hand, had devised a cunning plan of love. “If,” he said to Leonato, “we pretend, when Beatrice is near enough tooverhear us, that Benedick is pining for her love, she will pity him,see his good qualities, and love him. And if, when Benedick thinks wedon't know he is listening, we say how sad it is that the beautifulBeatrice should be in love with a heartless scoffer like Benedick, hewill certainly be on his knees before her in a week or less. ”So one day, when Benedick was reading in a summer-house, Claudio satdown outside it with Leonato, and said, “Your daughter told me somethingabout a letter she wrote. ”“Letter! ” exclaimed Leonato. “She will get up twenty times in the nightand write goodness knows what. But once Hero peeped, and saw the words'Benedick and Beatrice' on the sheet, and then Beatrice tore it up. ”“Hero told me,” said Claudio, “that she cried, 'O sweet Benedick! '”Benedick was touched to the core by this improbable story, which he wasvain enough to believe. “She is fair and good,” he said to himself. “I must not seem proud. I feel that I love her. People will laugh, ofcourse; but their paper bullets will do me no harm. ”At this moment Beatrice came to the summerhouse, and said, “Against mywill, I have come to tell you that dinner is ready. ”“Fair Beatrice, I thank you,” said Benedick. “I took no more pains to come than you take pains to thank me,” was therejoinder, intended to freeze him. But it did not freeze him. It warmed him. The meaning he squeezed out ofher rude speech was that she was delighted to come to him. Hero, who had undertaken the task of melting the heart of Beatrice, tookno trouble to seek an occasion. She simply said to her maid Margaret oneday, “Run into the parlor and whisper to Beatrice that Ursula and I aretalking about her in the orchard. ”Having said this, she felt as sure that Beatrice would overhear what wasmeant for her ears as if she had made an appointment with her cousin. In the orchard was a bower, screened from the sun by honeysuckles, andBeatrice entered it a few minutes after Margaret had gone on her errand. “But are you sure,” asked Ursula, who was one of Hero's attendants,“that Benedick loves Beatrice so devotedly? ”“So say the Prince and my betrothed,” replied Hero, “and they wished meto tell her, but I said, 'No! Let Benedick get over it. '”“Why did you say that? ”“Because Beatrice is unbearably proud. Her eyes sparkle with disdain andscorn. She is too conceited to love. I should not like to see her makinggame of poor Benedick's love. I would rather see Benedick waste awaylike a covered fire. ”“I don't agree with you,” said Ursula. “I think your cousin is tooclear-sighted not to see the merits of Benedick. ” “He is the one man inItaly, except Claudio,” said Hero. The talkers then left the orchard, and Beatrice, excited and tender,stepped out of the summer-house, saying to herself, “Poor dear Benedick,be true to me, and your love shall tame this wild heart of mine. ”We now return to the plan of hate. The night before the day fixed for Claudio's wedding, Don John entereda room in which Don Pedro and Claudio were conversing, and asked Claudioif he intended to be married to-morrow. “You know he does! ” said Don Pedro. “He may know differently,” said Don John, “when he has seen what I willshow him if he will follow me. ”They followed him into the garden; and they saw a lady leaning out ofHero's window talking love to Borachio. Claudio thought the lady was Hero, and said, “I will shame her for itto-morrow! ” Don Pedro thought she was Hero, too; but she was not Hero;she was Margaret. Don John chuckled noiselessly when Claudio and Don Pedro quitted thegarden; he gave Borachio a purse containing a thousand ducats. The money made Borachio feel very gay, and when he was walking in thestreet with his friend Conrade, he boasted of his wealth and the giver,and told what he had done. A watchman overheard them, and thought that a man who had been paid athousand ducats for villainy was worth taking in charge. He thereforearrested Borachio and Conrade, who spent the rest of the night inprison. Before noon of the next day half the aristocrats in Messina were atchurch. Hero thought it was her wedding day, and she was there in herwedding dress, no cloud on her pretty face or in her frank and shiningeyes. The priest was Friar Francis. Turning to Claudio, he said, “You come hither, my lord, to marry thislady? ” “No! ” contradicted Claudio. Leonato thought he was quibbling over grammar. “You should have said,Friar,” said he, “'You come to be married to her. '”Friar Francis turned to Hero. “Lady,” he said, “you come hither to bemarried to this Count? ” “I do,” replied Hero. “If either of you know any impediment to this marriage, I charge you toutter it,” said the Friar. “Do you know of any, Hero? ” asked Claudio. “None,” said she. “Know you of any, Count? ” demanded the Friar. “I dare reply for him,'None,'” said Leonato. Claudio exclaimed bitterly, “O! what will not men dare say! Father,” he continued, “will you give me your daughter? ” “As freely,” repliedLeonato, “as God gave her to me. ”“And what can I give you,” asked Claudio, “which is worthy of thisgift? ” “Nothing,” said Don Pedro, “unless you give the gift back to thegiver. ”“Sweet Prince, you teach me,” said Claudio. “There, Leonato, take herback. ”These brutal words were followed by others which flew from Claudio, DonPedro and Don John. The church seemed no longer sacred. Hero took her own part as long asshe could, then she swooned. All her persecutors left the church, excepther father, who was befooled by the accusations against her, and cried,“Hence from her! Let her die! ”But Friar Francis saw Hero blameless with his clear eyes that probed thesoul. “She is innocent,” he said; “a thousand signs have told me so. ”Hero revived under his kind gaze. Her father, flurried and angry, knewnot what to think, and the Friar said, “They have left her as one deadwith shame. Let us pretend that she is dead until the truth is declared,and slander turns to remorse. ”“The Friar advises well,” said Benedick. Then Hero was led away into aretreat, and Beatrice and Benedick remained alone in the church. Benedick knew she had been weeping bitterly and long. “Surely I dobelieve your fair cousin is wronged,” he said. She still wept. “Is it not strange,” asked Benedick, gently, “that I love nothing in theworld as well as you? ”“It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing as well as you,” saidBeatrice, “but I do not say it. I am sorry for my cousin. ”“Tell me what to do for her,” said Benedick. “Kill Claudio. ”“Ha! not for the wide world,” said Benedick.

“Your refusal kills me,” said Beatrice. “Farewell. ”“Enough! I will challenge him,” cried Benedick. During this scene Borachio and Conrade were in prison. There they wereexamined by a constable called Dogberry. The watchman gave evidence to the effect that Borachio had said that hehad received a thousand ducats for conspiring against Hero. Leonato was not present at this examination, but he was nevertheless nowthoroughly convinced Of Hero's innocence. He played the part of bereavedfather very well, and when Don Pedro and Claudio called on him in afriendly way, he said to the Italian, “You have slandered my child todeath, and I challenge you to combat. ”“I cannot fight an old man,” said Claudio. “You could kill a girl,” sneered Leonato, and Claudio crimsoned. Hot words grew from hot words, and both Don Pedro and Claudio werefeeling scorched when Leonato left the room and Benedick entered. “The old man,” said Claudio, “was like to have snapped my nose off. ”“You are a villain! ” said Benedick, shortly. “Fight me when and withwhat weapon you please, or I call you a coward. ”Claudio was astounded, but said, “I'll meet you. Nobody shall say Ican't carve a calf's head. ”Benedick smiled, and as it was time for Don Pedro to receive officials,the Prince sat down in a chair of state and prepared his mind forjustice. The door soon opened to admit Dogberry and his prisoners. “What offence,” said Don Pedro, “are these men charged with? ”Borachio thought the moment a happy one for making a clean breast of it. He laid the whole blame on Don John, who had disappeared. “The lady Herobeing dead,” he said, “I desire nothing but the reward of a murderer. ”Claudio heard with anguish and deep repentance. Upon the re-entrance of Leonato be said to him, “This slave makes clearyour daughter's innocence. Choose your revenge. “Leonato,” said Don Pedro, humbly, “I am ready for any penance you mayimpose. ”“I ask you both, then,” said Leonato, “to proclaim my daughter'sinnocence, and to honor her tomb by singing her praise before it. As foryou, Claudio, I have this to say: my brother has a daughter so like Herothat she might be a copy of her. Marry her, and my vengeful feelingsdie. ”“Noble sir,” said Claudio, “I am yours. ” Claudio then went to his roomand composed a solemn song. Going to the church with Don Pedro and hisattendants, he sang it before the monument of Leonato's family. When hehad ended he said, “Good night, Hero. Yearly will I do this. ”He then gravely, as became a gentleman whose heart was Hero's, madeready to marry a girl whom he did not love. He was told to meet her inLeonato's house, and was faithful to his appointment. He was shown into a room where Antonio (Leonato's brother) and severalmasked ladies entered after him. Friar Francis, Leonato, and Benedickwere present. Antonio led one of the ladies towards Claudio. “Sweet,” said the young man, “let me see your face. ”“Swear first to marry her,” said Leonato. “Give me your hand,” said Claudio to the lady; “before this holy friar Iswear to marry you if you will be my wife. ”“Alive I was your wife,” said the lady, as she drew off her mask. “Another Hero! ” exclaimed Claudio. “Hero died,” explained Leonato, “only while slander lived. ”The Friar was then going to marry the reconciled pair, but Benedickinterrupted him with, “Softly, Friar; which of these ladies isBeatrice? ”Hereat Beatrice unmasked, and Benedick said, “You love me, don't you? ”“Only moderately,” was the reply. “Do you love me? ”“Moderately,” answered Benedick. “I was told you were well-nigh dead for me,” remarked Beatrice. “Of you I was told the same,” said Benedick. “Here's your own hand in evidence of your love,” said Claudio, producinga feeble sonnet which Benedick had written to his sweetheart. “Andhere,” said Hero, “is a tribute to Benedick, which I picked out of thepocket of Beatrice. ”“A miracle! ” exclaimed Benedick. “Our hands are against our hearts! Come, I will marry you, Beatrice. ”“You shall be my husband to save your life,” was the rejoinder. Benedick kissed her on the mouth; and the Friar married them after hehad married Claudio and Hero. “How is Benedick the married man? ” asked Don Pedro. “Too happy to be made unhappy,” replied Benedick. “Crack what jokes youwill. As for you, Claudio, I had hoped to run you through the body, butas you are now my kinsman, live whole and love my cousin. ”“My cudgel was in love with you, Benedick, until to-day,” said Claudio;but, “Come, come, let's dance,” said Benedick. And dance they did. Not even the news of the capture of Don John wasable to stop the flying feet of the happy lovers, for revenge is notsweet against an evil man who has failed to do harm. ROMEO AND JULIETOnce upon a time there lived in Verona two great families named Montaguand Capulet. They were both rich, and I suppose they were as sensible,in most things, as other rich people. But in one thing they wereextremely silly. There was an old, old quarrel between the two families,and instead of making it up like reasonable folks, they made a sort ofpet of their quarrel, and would not let it die out. So that a Montaguwouldn't speak to a Capulet if he met one in the street--nor a Capuletto a Montagu--or if they did speak, it was to say rude and unpleasantthings, which often ended in a fight. And their relations andservants were just as foolish, so that street fights and duels anduncomfortablenesses of that kind were always growing out of theMontagu-and-Capulet quarrel. Now Lord Capulet, the head of that family, gave a party-- a grand supperand a dance--and he was so hospitable that he said anyone might come toit except (of course) the Montagues. But there was a young Montagu namedRomeo, who very much wanted to be there, because Rosaline, the lady heloved, had been asked. This lady had never been at all kind to him, andhe had no reason to love her; but the fact was that he wanted to lovesomebody, and as he hadn't seen the right lady, he was obliged to lovethe wrong one. So to the Capulet's grand party he came, with his friendsMercutio and Benvolio. Old Capulet welcomed him and his two friends very kindly--and youngRomeo moved about among the crowd of courtly folk dressed in theirvelvets and satins, the men with jeweled sword hilts and collars, andthe ladies with brilliant gems on breast and arms, and stones of priceset in their bright girdles. Romeo was in his best too, and though hewore a black mask over his eyes and nose, everyone could see by hismouth and his hair, and the way he held his head, that he was twelvetimes handsomer than anyone else in the room. Presently amid the dancers he saw a lady so beautiful and so lovablethat from that moment he never again gave one thought to that Rosalinewhom he had thought he loved. And he looked at this other fair lady, asshe moved in the dance in her white satin and pearls, and all the worldseemed vain and worthless to him compared with her. And he was sayingthis, or something like it, when Tybalt, Lady Capulet's nephew, hearinghis voice, knew him to be Romeo. Tybalt, being very angry, went atonce to his uncle, and told him how a Montagu had come uninvited to thefeast; but old Capulet was too fine a gentleman to be discourteous toany man under his own roof, and he bade Tybalt be quiet. But this youngman only waited for a chance to quarrel with Romeo. In the meantime Romeo made his way to the fair lady, and told her insweet words that he loved her, and kissed her. Just then her mother sentfor her, and then Romeo found out that the lady on whom he had set hisheart's hopes was Juliet, the daughter of Lord Capulet, his sworn foe. So he went away, sorrowing indeed, but loving her none the less. Then Juliet said to her nurse:“Who is that gentleman that would not dance? ”“His name is Romeo, and a Montagu, the only son of your great enemy,” answered the nurse. Then Juliet went to her room, and looked out of her window, over thebeautiful green-grey garden, where the moon was shining. And Romeo washidden in that garden among the trees--because he could not bear to goright away without trying to see her again. So she--not knowing him tobe there--spoke her secret thought aloud, and told the quiet garden howshe loved Romeo. And Romeo heard and was glad beyond measure. Hidden below, he lookedup and saw her fair face in the moonlight, framed in the blossomingcreepers that grew round her window, and as he looked and listened, hefelt as though he had been carried away in a dream, and set down by somemagician in that beautiful and enchanted garden. “Ah--why are you called Romeo? ” said Juliet. “Since I love you, whatdoes it matter what you are called? ”“Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized--henceforth I never will beRomeo,” he cried, stepping into the full white moonlight from the shadeof the cypresses and oleanders that had hidden him. She was frightened at first, but when she saw that it was Romeo himself,and no stranger, she too was glad, and, he standing in the garden belowand she leaning from the window, they spoke long together, each onetrying to find the sweetest words in the world, to make that pleasanttalk that lovers use. And the tale of all they said, and the sweet musictheir voices made together, is all set down in a golden book, where youchildren may read it for yourselves some day. And the time passed so quickly, as it does for folk who love each otherand are together, that when the time came to part, it seemed as thoughthey had met but that moment-- and indeed they hardly knew how to part. “I will send to you to-morrow,” said Juliet. And so at last, with lingering and longing, they said good-bye. Juliet went into her room, and a dark curtain bid her bright window. Romeo went away through the still and dewy garden like a man in a dream. The next morning, very early, Romeo went to Friar Laurence, a priest,and, telling him all the story, begged him to marry him to Julietwithout delay. And this, after some talk, the priest consented to do. So when Juliet sent her old nurse to Romeo that day to know what hepurposed to do, the old woman took back a a message that all was well,and all things ready for the marriage of Juliet and Romeo on the nextmorning. The young lovers were afraid to ask their parents' consent to theirmarriage, as young people should do, because of this foolish old quarrelbetween the Capulets and the Montagues. And Friar Laurence was willing to help the young lovers secretly,because he thought that when they were once married their parentsmight soon be told, and that the match might put a happy end to the oldquarrel. So the next morning early, Romeo and Juliet were married at FriarLaurence's cell, and parted with tears and kisses. And Romeo promised tocome into the garden that evening, and the nurse got ready a rope-ladderto let down from the window, so that Romeo could climb up and talk tohis dear wife quietly and alone. But that very day a dreadful thing happened. Tybalt, the young man who had been so vexed at Romeo's going to theCapulet's feast, met him and his two friends, Mercutio and Benvolio, inthe street, called Romeo a villain, and asked him to fight. Romeo had nowish to fight with Juliet's cousin, but Mercutio drew his sword, andhe and Tybalt fought. And Mercutio was killed. When Romeo saw that thisfriend was dead, he forgot everything except anger at the man who hadkilled him, and he and Tybalt fought till Tybalt fell dead. So, on the very day of his wedding, Romeo killed his dear Juliet'scousin, and was sentenced to be banished. Poor Juliet and her younghusband met that night indeed; he climbed the rope-ladder among theflowers, and found her window, but their meeting was a sad one, and theyparted with bitter tears and hearts heavy, because they could not knowwhen they should meet again. Now Juliet's father, who, of course, had no idea that she was married,wished her to wed a gentleman named Paris, and was so angry when sherefused, that she hurried away to ask Friar Laurence what she should do. He advised her to pretend to consent, and then he said:“I will give you a draught that will make you seem to be dead for twodays, and then when they take you to church it will be to bury you, andnot to marry you. They will put you in the vault thinking you are dead,and before you wake up Romeo and I will be there to take care of you. Will you do this, or are you afraid? ”“I will do it; talk not to me of fear! ” said Juliet. And she went homeand told her father she would marry Paris. If she had spoken out andtold her father the truth . . . well, then this would have been adifferent story. Lord Capulet was very much pleased to get his own way, and set aboutinviting his friends and getting the wedding feast ready. Everyonestayed up all night, for there was a great deal to do, and very littletime to do it in. Lord Capulet was anxious to get Juliet married becausehe saw she was very unhappy. Of course she was really fretting about herhusband Romeo, but her father thought she was grieving for the death ofher cousin Tybalt, and he thought marriage would give her something elseto think about. Early in the morning the nurse came to call Juliet, and to dress herfor her wedding; but she would not wake, and at last the nurse cried outsuddenly--“Alas! alas! help! help! my lady's dead! Oh, well-a-day that ever I wasborn! ”Lady Capulet came running in, and then Lord Capulet, and Lord Paris, thebridegroom. There lay Juliet cold and white and lifeless, and all theirweeping could not wake her. So it was a burying that day instead of amarrying. Meantime Friar Laurence had sent a messenger to Mantua with aletter to Romeo telling him of all these things; and all would have beenwell, only the messenger was delayed, and could not go. But ill news travels fast. Romeo's servant who knew the secret of themarriage, but not of Juliet's pretended death, heard of her funeral, andhurried to Mantua to tell Romeo how his young wife was dead and lying inthe grave. “Is it so? ” cried Romeo, heart-broken. “Then I will lie by Juliet's sideto-night. ”And he bought himself a poison, and went straight back to Verona. Hehastened to the tomb where Juliet was lying. It was not a grave, but avault. He broke open the door, and was just going down the stone stepsthat led to the vault where all the dead Capulets lay, when he heard avoice behind him calling on him to stop. It was the Count Paris, who was to have married Juliet that very day. “How dare you come here and disturb the dead bodies of the Capulets, youvile Montagu? ” cried Paris. Poor Romeo, half mad with sorrow, yet tried to answer gently. “You were told,” said Paris, “that if you returned to Verona you mustdie. ”“I must indeed,” said Romeo. “I came here for nothing else. Good, gentleyouth--leave me! Oh, go--before I do you any harm! I love you betterthan myself--go--leave me here--”Then Paris said, “I defy you, and I arrest you as a felon,” and Romeo,in his anger and despair, drew his sword. They fought, and Paris waskilled. As Romeo's sword pierced him, Paris cried--“Oh, I am slain! If thou be merciful, open the tomb, and lay me withJuliet! ”And Romeo said, “In faith I will. ”And he carried the dead man into the tomb and laid him by the dearJuliet's side. Then he kneeled by Juliet and spoke to her, and heldher in his arms, and kissed her cold lips, believing that she was dead,while all the while she was coming nearer and nearer to the time of herawakening. Then he drank the poison, and died beside his sweetheart andwife. Now came Friar Laurence when it was too late, and saw all that hadhappened--and then poor Juliet woke out of her sleep to find her husbandand her friend both dead beside her. The noise of the fight had brought other folks to the place too, andFriar Laurence, hearing them, ran away, and Juliet was left alone. Shesaw the cup that had held the poison, and knew how all had happened, andsince no poison was left for her, she drew her Romeo's dagger and thrustit through her heart--and so, falling with her head on her Romeo'sbreast, she died. And here ends the story of these faithful and mostunhappy lovers. * * * * * * *And when the old folks knew from Friar Laurence of all that hadbefallen, they sorrowed exceedingly, and now, seeing all the mischieftheir wicked quarrel had wrought, they repented them of it, and over thebodies of their dead children they clasped hands at last, in friendshipand forgiveness. PERICLESPericles, the Prince of Tyre, was unfortunate enough to make an enemy ofAntiochus, the powerful and wicked King of Antioch; and so great was thedanger in which he stood that, on the advice of his trusty counselor,Lord Helicanus, he determined to travel about the world for a time. Hecame to this decision despite the fact that, by the death of his father,he was now King of Tyre. So he set sail for Tarsus, appointing HelicanusRegent during his absence. That he did wisely in thus leaving hiskingdom was soon made clear. Hardly had he sailed on his voyage, when Lord Thaliard arrived fromAntioch with instructions from his royal master to kill Pericles. Thefaithful Helicanus soon discovered the deadly purpose of this wickedlord, and at once sent messengers to Tarsus to warn the King of thedanger which threatened him. The people of Tarsus were in such poverty and distress that Pericles,feeling that he could find no safe refuge there, put to sea again. Buta dreadful storm overtook the ship in which he was, and the good vesselwas wrecked, while of all on board only Pericles was saved. Bruisedand wet and faint, he was flung upon the cruel rocks on the coast ofPentapolis, the country of the good King Simonides. Worn out as he was,he looked for nothing but death, and that speedily. But some fishermen,coming down to the beach, found him there, and gave him clothes and badehim be of good cheer. “Thou shalt come home with me,” said one of them, “and we will haveflesh for holidays, fish for fasting days, and moreo'er, puddings andflapjacks, and thou shalt be welcome. ”They told him that on the morrow many princes and knights were goingto the King's Court, there to joust and tourney for the love of hisdaughter, the beautiful Princess Thaisa. “Did but my fortunes equal my desires,” said Pericles, “I'd wish to makeone there. ”As he spoke, some of the fishermen came by, drawing their net, and itdragged heavily, resisting all their efforts, but at last they hauled itin, to find that it contained a suit of rusty armor; and looking at it,he blessed Fortune for her kindness, for he saw that it was his own,which had been given to him by his dead father. He begged the fishermento let him have it that he might go to Court and take part in thetournament, promising that if ever his ill fortunes bettered, he wouldreward them well. The fishermen readily consented, and being thus fullyequipped, Pericles set off in his rusty armor to the King's Court. In the tournament none bore himself so well as Pericles, and he won thewreath of victory, which the fair Princess herself placed on his brows. Then at her father's command she asked him who he was, and whence hecame; and he answered that he was a knight of Tyre, by name Pericles,but he did not tell her that he was the King of that country, for heknew that if once his whereabouts became known to Antiochus, his lifewould not be worth a pin's purchase. Nevertheless Thaisa loved him dearly, and the King was so pleased withhis courage and graceful bearing that he gladly permitted his daughterto have her own way, when she told him she would marry the strangerknight or die. Thus Pericles became the husband of the fair lady for whose sake hehad striven with the knights who came in all their bravery to joust andtourney for her love. Meanwhile the wicked King Antiochus had died, and the people in Tyre,hearing no news of their King, urged Lord Helicanus to ascend the vacantthrone. But they could only get him to promise that he would becometheir King, if at the end of a year Pericles did not come back. Moreover, he sent forth messengers far and wide in search of the missingPericles. Some of these made their way to Pentapolis, and finding their Kingthere, told him how discontented his people were at his long absence,and that, Antiochus being dead, there was nothing now to hinder him fromreturning to his kingdom. Then Pericles told his wife and father-in-lawwho he really was, and they and all the subjects of Simonides greatlyrejoiced to know that the gallant husband of Thaisa was a King in hisown right. So Pericles set sail with his dear wife for his native land. But once more the sea was cruel to him, for again a dreadful storm brokeout, and while it was at its height, a servant came to tell him thata little daughter was born to him. This news would have made his heartglad indeed, but that the servant went on to add that his wife--hisdear, dear Thaisa--was dead. While he was praying the gods to be good to his little baby girl,the sailors came to him, declaring that the dead Queen must be thrownoverboard, for they believed that the storm would never cease so longas a dead body remained in the vessel. So Thaisa was laid in a big chestwith spices and jewels, and a scroll on which the sorrowful King wrotethese lines: “Here I give to understand (If e'er this coffin drive a-land), I, King Pericles, have lost This Queen worth all our mundane cost. Who finds her, give her burying; She was the daughter of a King; Besides this treasure for a fee, The gods requite his charity! ”Then the chest was cast into the sea, and the waves taking it, by andby washed it ashore at Ephesus, where it was found by the servants of alord named Cerimon. He at once ordered it to be opened, and when hesaw how lovely Thaisa looked, he doubted if she were dead, and tookimmediate steps to restore her. Then a great wonder happened, for she,who had been thrown into the sea as dead, came back to life. But feelingsure that she would never see her husband again, Thaisa retired from theworld, and became a priestess of the Goddess Diana. While these things were happening, Pericles went on to Tarsus with hislittle daughter, whom he called Marina, because she had been born atsea. Leaving her in the hands of his old friend the Governor of Tarsus,the King sailed for his own dominions. Now Dionyza, the wife of the Governor of Tarsus, was a jealous andwicked woman, and finding that the young Princess grew up a moreaccomplished and charming girl than her own daughter, she determined totake Marina's life. So when Marina was fourteen, Dionyza ordered one ofher servants to take her away and kill her. This villain would have doneso, but that he was interrupted by some pirates who came in and carriedMarina off to sea with them, and took her to Mitylene, where they soldher as a slave. Yet such was her goodness, her grace, and her beauty,that she soon became honored there, and Lysimachus, the young Governor,fell deep in love with her, and would have married her, but that hethought she must be of too humble parentage to become the wife of one inhis high position. The wicked Dionyza believed, from her servant's report, that Marina wasreally dead, and so she put up a monument to her memory, and showed itto King Pericles, when after long years of absence he came to seehis much-loved child. When he heard that she was dead, his grief wasterrible to see. He set sail once more, and putting on sackcloth, vowednever to wash his face or cut his hair again. There was a pavilionerected on deck, and there he lay alone, and for three months he spokeword to none. At last it chanced that his ship came into the port of Mitylene, andLysimachus, the Governor, went on board to enquire whence the vesselcame. When he heard the story of Pericles' sorrow and silence, hebethought him of Marina, and believing that she could rouse the Kingfrom his stupor, sent for her and bade her try her utmost to persuadethe King to speak, promising whatever reward she would, if shesucceeded. Marina gladly obeyed, and sending the rest away, she sat andsang to her poor grief-laden father, yet, sweet as was her voice, hemade no sign. So presently she spoke to him, saying that her grief mightequal his, for, though she was a slave, she came from ancestors thatstood equal to mighty kings. Something in her voice and story touched the King's heart, and he lookedup at her, and as he looked, he saw with wonder how like she was to hislost wife, so with a great hope springing up in his heart, he bade hertell her story. Then, with many interruptions from the King, she told him who she wasand how she had escaped from the cruel Dionyza.

So Pericles knew thatthis was indeed his daughter, and he kissed her again and again, cryingthat his great seas of joy drowned him with their sweetness. “Give me myrobes,” he said: “O Heaven, bless my girl! ”Then there came to him, though none else could hear it, the sound ofheavenly music, and falling asleep, he beheld the goddess Diana, in avision. “Go,” she said to him, “to my temple at Ephesus, and when my maidenpriests are met together, reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife. ”Pericles obeyed the goddess and told his tale before her altar. Hardlyhad he made an end, when the chief priestess, crying out, “You are--youare--O royal Pericles! ” fell fainting to the ground, and presentlyrecovering, she spoke again to him, “O my lord, are you not Pericles? ” “The voice of dead Thaisa! ” exclaimed the King in wonder. “That Thaisaam I,” she said, and looking at her he saw that she spoke the verytruth. Thus Pericles and Thaisa, after long and bitter suffering, foundhappiness once more, and in the joy of their meeting they forgot thepain of the past. To Marina great happiness was given, and not onlyin being restored to her dear parents; for she married Lysimachus, andbecame a princess in the land where she had been sold as a slave. HAMLETHamlet was the only son of the King of Denmark. He loved his father andmother dearly--and was happy in the love of a sweet lady named Ophelia. Her father, Polonius, was the King's Chamberlain. While Hamlet was away studying at Wittenberg, his father died. YoungHamlet hastened home in great grief to hear that a serpent had stungthe King, and that he was dead. The young Prince had loved his father sotenderly that you may judge what he felt when he found that the Queen,before yet the King had been laid in the ground a month, had determinedto marry again--and to marry the dead King's brother. Hamlet refused to put off mourning for the wedding. “It is not only the black I wear on my body,” he said, “that proves myloss. I wear mourning in my heart for my dead father. His son at leastremembers him, and grieves still. ”Then said Claudius the King's brother, “This grief is unreasonable. Ofcourse you must sorrow at the loss of your father, but--”“Ah,” said Hamlet, bitterly, “I cannot in one little month forget thoseI love. ”With that the Queen and Claudius left him, to make merry over theirwedding, forgetting the poor good King who had been so kind to themboth. And Hamlet, left alone, began to wonder and to question as to what heought to do. For he could not believe the story about the snake-bite. It seemed to him all too plain that the wicked Claudius had killed theKing, so as to get the crown and marry the Queen. Yet he had no proof,and could not accuse Claudius. And while he was thus thinking came Horatio, a fellow student of his,from Wittenberg. “What brought you here? ” asked Hamlet, when he had greeted his friendkindly. “I came, my lord, to see your father's funeral. ”“I think it was to see my mother's wedding,” said Hamlet, bitterly. “Myfather! We shall not look upon his like again. ”“My lord,” answered Horatio, “I think I saw him yesternight. ”Then, while Hamlet listened in surprise, Horatio told how he, with twogentlemen of the guard, had seen the King's ghost on the battlements. Hamlet went that night, and true enough, at midnight, the ghost of theKing, in the armor he had been wont to wear, appeared on the battlementsin the chill moonlight. Hamlet was a brave youth. Instead of runningaway from the ghost he spoke to it--and when it beckoned him he followedit to a quiet place, and there the ghost told him that what he hadsuspected was true. The wicked Claudius had indeed killed his goodbrother the King, by dropping poison into his ear as he slept in hisorchard in the afternoon. “And you,” said the ghost, “must avenge this cruel murder-- on my wickedbrother. But do nothing against the Queen-- for I have loved her, andshe is your mother. Remember me. ”Then seeing the morning approach, the ghost vanished. “Now,” said Hamlet, “there is nothing left but revenge. Remember thee--Iwill remember nothing else--books, pleasure, youth--let all go--and yourcommands alone live on my brain. ”So when his friends came back he made them swear to keep the secret ofthe ghost, and then went in from the battlements, now gray with mingleddawn and moonlight, to think how he might best avenge his murderedfather. The shock of seeing and hearing his father's ghost made him feel almostmad, and for fear that his uncle might notice that he was not himself,he determined to hide his mad longing for revenge under a pretendedmadness in other matters. And when he met Ophelia, who loved him--and to whom he had given gifts,and letters, and many loving words--he behaved so wildly to her, thatshe could not but think him mad. For she loved him so that she could notbelieve he would be as cruel as this, unless he were quite mad. So shetold her father, and showed him a pretty letter from Hamlet. And in theletter was much folly, and this pretty verse-- “Doubt that the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love. ”And from that time everyone believed that the cause of Hamlet's supposedmadness was love. Poor Hamlet was very unhappy. He longed to obey his father's ghost--andyet he was too gentle and kindly to wish to kill another man, even hisfather's murderer. And sometimes he wondered whether, after all, theghost spoke truly. Just at this time some actors came to the Court, and Hamlet ordered themto perform a certain play before the King and Queen. Now, this playwas the story of a man who had been murdered in his garden by a nearrelation, who afterwards married the dead man's wife. You may imagine the feelings of the wicked King, as he sat on histhrone, with the Queen beside him and all his Court around, and saw,acted on the stage, the very wickedness that he had himself done. Andwhen, in the play, the wicked relation poured poison into the ear of thesleeping man, the wicked Claudius suddenly rose, and staggered from theroom--the Queen and others following. Then said Hamlet to his friends--“Now I am sure the ghost spoke true. For if Claudius had not done thismurder, he could not have been so distressed to see it in a play. ”Now the Queen sent for Hamlet, by the King's desire, to scold himfor his conduct during the play, and for other matters; and Claudius,wishing to know exactly what happened, told old Polonius to hide himselfbehind the hangings in the Queen's room. And as they talked, the Queengot frightened at Hamlet's rough, strange words, and cried for help, andPolonius behind the curtain cried out too. Hamlet, thinking it was theKing who was hidden there, thrust with his sword at the hangings, andkilled, not the King, but poor old Polonius. So now Hamlet had offended his uncle and his mother, and by bad hapkilled his true love's father. “Oh! what a rash and bloody deed is this,” cried the Queen. And Hamlet answered bitterly, “Almost as bad as to kill a king, andmarry his brother. ” Then Hamlet told the Queen plainly all his thoughtsand how he knew of the murder, and begged her, at least, to have no morefriendship or kindness of the base Claudius, who had killed the goodKing. And as they spoke the King's ghost again appeared before Hamlet,but the Queen could not see it. So when the ghost had gone, they parted. When the Queen told Claudius what had passed, and how Polonius was dead,he said, “This shows plainly that Hamlet is mad, and since he has killedthe Chancellor, it is for his own safety that we must carry out ourplan, and send him away to England. ”So Hamlet was sent, under charge of two courtiers who served the King,and these bore letters to the English Court, requiring that Hamletshould be put to death. But Hamlet had the good sense to get at theseletters, and put in others instead, with the names of the two courtierswho were so ready to betray him. Then, as the vessel went to England,Hamlet escaped on board a pirate ship, and the two wicked courtiers lefthim to his fate, and went on to meet theirs. Hamlet hurried home, but in the meantime a dreadful thing had happened. Poor pretty Ophelia, having lost her lover and her father, lost her witstoo, and went in sad madness about the Court, with straws, and weeds,and flowers in her hair, singing strange scraps of songs, and talkingpoor, foolish, pretty talk with no heart of meaning to it. And oneday, coming to a stream where willows grew, she tried to bang a flowerygarland on a willow, and fell into the water with all her flowers, andso died. And Hamlet had loved her, though his plan of seeming madness had madehim hide it; and when he came back, he found the King and Queen, and theCourt, weeping at the funeral of his dear love and lady. Ophelia's brother, Laertes, had also just come to Court to ask justicefor the death of his father, old Polonius; and now, wild with grief, heleaped into his sister's grave, to clasp her in his arms once more. “I loved her more than forty thousand brothers,” cried Hamlet, and leaptinto the grave after him, and they fought till they were parted. Afterwards Hamlet begged Laertes to forgive him. “I could not bear,” he said, “that any, even a brother, should seem tolove her more than I. ”But the wicked Claudius would not let them be friends. He told Laerteshow Hamlet had killed old Polonius, and between them they made a plot toslay Hamlet by treachery. Laertes challenged him to a fencing match, and all the Court werepresent. Hamlet had the blunt foil always used in fencing, but Laerteshad prepared for himself a sword, sharp, and tipped with poison. And thewicked King had made ready a bowl of poisoned wine, which he meantto give poor Hamlet when he should grow warm with the sword play, andshould call for drink. So Laertes and Hamlet fought, and Laertes, after some fencing, gaveHamlet a sharp sword thrust. Hamlet, angry at this treachery--forthey had been fencing, not as men fight, but as they play--closed withLaertes in a struggle; both dropped their swords, and when they pickedthem up again, Hamlet, without noticing it, had exchanged his own bluntsword for Laertes' sharp and poisoned one. And with one thrust of it hepierced Laertes, who fell dead by his own treachery. At this moment the Queen cried out, “The drink, the drink! Oh, my dearHamlet! I am poisoned! ”She had drunk of the poisoned bowl the King had prepared for Hamlet, andthe King saw the Queen, whom, wicked as he was, he really loved, falldead by his means. Then Ophelia being dead, and Polonius, and the Queen, and Laertes, andthe two courtiers who had been sent to England, Hamlet at last foundcourage to do the ghost's bidding and avenge his father's murder--which,if he had braced up his heart to do long before, all these liveshad been spared, and none had suffered but the wicked King, who welldeserved to die. Hamlet, his heart at last being great enough to do the deed he ought,turned the poisoned sword on the false King. “Then--venom--do thy work! ” he cried, and the King died. So Hamlet in the end kept the promise he had made his father. And allbeing now accomplished, he himself died. And those who stood by saw himdie, with prayers and tears, for his friends and his people loved himwith their whole hearts. Thus ends the tragic tale of Hamlet, Prince ofDenmark. CYMBELINECymbeline was the King of Britain. He had three children. The two sonswere stolen away from him when they were quite little children, and hewas left with only one daughter, Imogen. The King married a secondtime, and brought up Leonatus, the son of a dear friend, as Imogen'splayfellow; and when Leonatus was old enough, Imogen secretly marriedhim. This made the King and Queen very angry, and the King, to punishLeonatus, banished him from Britain. Poor Imogen was nearly heart-broken at parting from Leonatus, and he wasnot less unhappy. For they were not only lovers and husband and wife,but they had been friends and comrades ever since they were quite littlechildren. With many tears and kisses they said “Good-bye. ” They promisednever to forget each other, and that they would never care for anyoneelse as long as they lived. “This diamond was my mother's, love,” said Imogen; “take it, my heart,and keep it as long as you love me. ”“Sweetest, fairest,” answered Leonatus, “wear this bracelet for mysake. ”“Ah! ” cried Imogen, weeping, “when shall we meet again? ”And while they were still in each other's arms, the King came in, andLeonatus had to leave without more farewell. When he was come to Rome, where he had gone to stay with an old friendof his father's, he spent his days still in thinking of his dear Imogen,and his nights in dreaming of her. One day at a feast some Italian andFrench noblemen were talking of their sweethearts, and swearing thatthey were the most faithful and honorable and beautiful ladies in theworld. And a Frenchman reminded Leonatus how he had said many times thathis wife Imogen was more fair, wise, and constant than any of the ladiesin France. “I say so still,” said Leonatus. “She is not so good but that she would deceive,” said Iachimo, one ofthe Italian nobles. “She never would deceive,” said Leonatus. “I wager,” said Iachimo, “that, if I go to Britain, I can persuade yourwife to do whatever I wish, even if it should be against your wishes. ”“That you will never do,” said Leonatus. “I wager this ring upon myfinger,” which was the very ring Imogen had given him at parting, “thatmy wife will keep all her vows to me, and that you will never persuadeher to do otherwise. ”So Iachimo wagered half his estate against the ring on Leonatus'sfinger, and started forthwith for Britain, with a letter of introductionto Leonatus's wife. When he reached there he was received with allkindness; but he was still determined to win his wager. He told Imogen that her husband thought no more of her, and went on totell many cruel lies about him. Imogen listened at first, but presentlyperceived what a wicked person Iachimo was, and ordered him to leaveher. Then he said--“Pardon me, fair lady, all that I have said is untrue. I only told youthis to see whether you would believe me, or whether you were as much tobe trusted as your husband thinks. Will you forgive me? ”“I forgive you freely,” said Imogen. “Then,” went on Iachimo, “perhaps you will prove it by taking charge ofa trunk, containing a number of jewels which your husband and I and someother gentlemen have bought as a present for the Emperor of Rome. ”“I will indeed,” said Imogen, “do anything for my husband and a friendof my husband's. Have the jewels sent into my room, and I will take careof them. ”“It is only for one night,” said Iachimo, “for I leave Britain againto-morrow. ”So the trunk was carried into Imogen's room, and that night she went tobed and to sleep. When she was fast asleep, the lid of the trunk openedand a man got out. It was Iachimo. The story about the jewels was asuntrue as the rest of the things he had said. He had only wished to getinto her room to win his wicked wager. He looked about him and noticedthe furniture, and then crept to the side of the bed where Imogenwas asleep and took from her arm the gold bracelet which had been theparting gift of her husband. Then he crept back to the trunk, and nextmorning sailed for Rome. When he met Leonatus, he said--“I have been to Britain and I have won the wager, for your wife nolonger thinks about you. She stayed talking with me all one night in herroom, which is hung with tapestry and has a carved chimney-piece, andsilver andirons in the shape of two winking Cupids. ”“I do not believe she has forgotten me; I do not believe she stayedtalking with you in her room. You have heard her room described by theservants. ”“Ah! ” said Iachimo, “but she gave me this bracelet. She took it fromher arm. I see her yet. Her pretty action did outsell her gift, and yetenriched it too. She gave it me, and said she prized it once. ”“Take the ring,” cried Leonatus, “you have won; and you might havewon my life as well, for I care nothing for it now I know my lady hasforgotten me. ”And mad with anger, he wrote letters to Britain to his old servant,Pisanio, ordering him to take Imogen to Milford Haven, and to murderher, because she had forgotten him and given away his gift. At the sametime he wrote to Imogen herself, telling her to go with Pisanio, his oldservant, to Milford Haven, and that he, her husband, would be there tomeet her. Now when Pisanio got this letter he was too good to carry out itsorders, and too wise to let them alone altogether. So he gave Imogen theletter from her husband, and started with her for Milford Haven. Beforehe left, the wicked Queen gave him a drink which, she said, would beuseful in sickness. She hoped he would give it to Imogen, and thatImogen would die, and the wicked Queen's son could be King. For theQueen thought this drink was a poison, but really and truly it was onlya sleeping-draft. When Pisanio and Imogen came near to Milford Haven, he told her what wasreally in the letter he had had from her husband. “I must go on to Rome, and see him myself,” said Imogen. And then Pisanio helped her to dress in boy's clothes, and sent heron her way, and went back to the Court. Before he went he gave her thedrink he had had from the Queen. Imogen went on, getting more and more tired, and at last came to a cave. Someone seemed to live there, but no one was in just then. So she wentin, and as she was almost dying of hunger, she took some food she sawthere, and had just done so, when an old man and two boys came into thecave. She was very much frightened when she saw them, for she thoughtthat they would be angry with her for taking their food, though shehad meant to leave money for it on the table. But to her surprise theywelcomed her kindly. She looked very pretty in her boy's clothes and herface was good, as well as pretty. “You shall be our brother,” said both the boys; and so she stayed withthem, and helped to cook the food, and make things comfortable. But oneday when the old man, whose name was Bellarius, was out hunting withthe two boys, Imogen felt ill, and thought she would try the medicinePisanio had given her. So she took it, and at once became like a deadcreature, so that when Bellarius and the boys came back from hunting,they thought she was dead, and with many tears and funeral songs, theycarried her away and laid her in the wood, covered with flowers. They sang sweet songs to her, and strewed flowers on her, paleprimroses, and the azure harebell, and eglantine, and furred moss, andwent away sorrowful. No sooner had they gone than Imogen awoke, and notknowing how she came there, nor where she was, went wandering throughthe wood. Now while Imogen had been living in the cave, the Romans had decided toattack Britain, and their army had come over, and with them Leonatus,who had grown sorry for his wickedness against Imogen, so had comeback, not to fight with the Romans against Britain, but with the Britonsagainst Rome. So as Imogen wandered alone, she met with Lucius, theRoman General, and took service with him as his page. When the battle was fought between the Romans and Britons, Bellarius andhis two boys fought for their own country, and Leonatus, disguised asa British peasant, fought beside them. The Romans had taken Cymbelineprisoner, and old Bellarius, with his sons and Leonatus, bravely rescuedthe King. Then the Britons won the battle, and among the prisonersbrought before the King were Lucius, with Imogen, Iachimo, and Leonatus,who had put on the uniform of a Roman soldier. He was tired of his lifesince he had cruelly ordered his wife to be killed, and he hoped that,as a Roman soldier, he would be put to death. When they were brought before the King, Lucius spoke out--“A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer,” he said. “If I must die, sobe it. This one thing only will I entreat. My boy, a Briton born, lethim be ransomed. Never master had a page so kind, so duteous, diligent,true. He has done no Briton harm, though he has served a Roman. Savehim, Sir. ”Then Cymbeline looked on the page, who was his own daughter, Imogen, indisguise, and though he did not recognize her, he felt such a kindnessthat he not only spared the boy's life, but he said--“He shall have any boon he likes to ask of me, even though he ask aprisoner, the noblest taken. ”Then Imogen said, “The boon I ask is that this gentleman shall say fromwhom he got the ring he has on his finger,” and she pointed to Iachimo. “Speak,” said Cymbeline, “how did you get that diamond? ”Then Iachimo told the whole truth of his villainy. At this, Leonatus wasunable to contain himself, and casting aside all thought of disguise, hecame forward, cursing himself for his folly in having believed Iachimo'slying story, and calling again and again on his wife whom he believeddead. “Oh, Imogen, my love, my life! ” he cried. “Oh, Imogen! Then Imogen, forgetting she was disguised, cried out, “Peace, mylord--here, here! ”Leonatus turned to strike the forward page who thus interfered in hisgreat trouble, and then he saw that it was his wife, Imogen, and theyfell into each other's arms. The King was so glad to see his dear daughter again, and so grateful tothe man who had rescued him (whom he now found to be Leonatus), that hegave his blessing on their marriage, and then he turned to Bellarius,and the two boys. Now Bellarius spoke--“I am your old servant, Bellarius. You accused me of treason when I hadonly been loyal to you, and to be doubted, made me disloyal. So I stoleyour two sons, and see,--they are here! ” And he brought forward the twoboys, who had sworn to be brothers to Imogen when they thought she was aboy like themselves. The wicked Queen was dead of some of her own poisons, and the King, withhis three children about him, lived to a happy old age. So the wicked were punished, and the good and true lived happy everafter. So may the wicked suffer, and honest folk prosper till theworld's end. MACBETHWhen a person is asked to tell the story of Macbeth, he can tell twostories. One is of a man called Macbeth who came to the throne ofScotland by a crime in the year of our Lord 1039, and reigned justlyand well, on the whole, for fifteen years or more. This story is partof Scottish history. The other story issues from a place calledImagination; it is gloomy and wonderful, and you shall hear it. A year or two before Edward the Confessor began to rule England, abattle was won in Scotland against a Norwegian King by two generalsnamed Macbeth and Banquo. After the battle, the generals walked togethertowards Forres, in Elginshire, where Duncan, King of Scotland, wasawaiting them. While they were crossing a lonely heath, they saw three bearded women,sisters, hand in hand, withered in appearance and wild in their attire. “Speak, who are you? ” demanded Macbeth. “Hail, Macbeth, chieftain of Glamis,” said the first woman. “Hail, Macbeth, chieftain of Cawdor,” said the second woman. “Hail, Macbeth, King that is to be,” said the third woman. Then Banquo asked, “What of me? ” and the third woman replied, “Thoushalt be the father of kings. ”“Tell me more,” said Macbeth. “By my father's death I am chieftain ofGlamis, but the chieftain of Cawdor lives, and the King lives, and hischildren live. Speak, I charge you! ”The women replied only by vanishing, as though suddenly mixed with theair. Banquo and Macbeth knew then that they had been addressed by witches,and were discussing their prophecies when two nobles approached.

One ofthem thanked Macbeth, in the King's name, for his military services, andthe other said, “He bade me call you chieftain of Cawdor. ”Macbeth then learned that the man who had yesterday borne that titlewas to die for treason, and he could not help thinking, “The third witchcalled me, 'King that is to be. '”“Banquo,” he said, “you see that the witches spoke truth concerning me. Do you not believe, therefore, that your child and grandchild will bekings? ”Banquo frowned. Duncan had two sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, and hedeemed it disloyal to hope that his son Fleance should rule Scotland. He told Macbeth that the witches might have intended to tempt themboth into villainy by their prophecies concerning the throne. Macbeth,however, thought the prophecy that he should be King too pleasant tokeep to himself, and he mentioned it to his wife in a letter. Lady Macbeth was the grand-daughter of a King of Scotland who had diedin defending his crown against the King who preceded Duncan, and bywhose order her only brother was slain. To her, Duncan was a reminderof bitter wrongs. Her husband had royal blood in his veins, and when sheread his letter, she was determined that he should be King. When a messenger arrived to inform her that Duncan would pass a night inMacbeth's castle, she nerved herself for a very base action. She told Macbeth almost as soon as she saw him that Duncan must spenda sunless morrow. She meant that Duncan must die, and that the dead areblind. “We will speak further,” said Macbeth uneasily, and at night,with his memory full of Duncan's kind words, he would fain have sparedhis guest. “Would you live a coward? ” demanded Lady Macbeth, who seems to havethought that morality and cowardice were the same. “I dare do all that may become a man,” replied Macbeth; “who dare domore is none. ”“Why did you write that letter to me? ” she inquired fiercely, and withbitter words she egged him on to murder, and with cunning words sheshowed him how to do it. After supper Duncan went to bed, and two grooms were placed on guard athis bedroom door. Lady Macbeth caused them to drink wine till they werestupefied. She then took their daggers and would have killed the Kingherself if his sleeping face had not looked like her father's. Macbeth came later, and found the daggers lying by the grooms; and soonwith red hands he appeared before his wife, saying, “Methought I heard avoice cry, 'Sleep no more! Macbeth destroys the sleeping. '”“Wash your hands,” said she. “Why did you not leave the daggers by thegrooms? Take them back, and smear the grooms with blood. ”“I dare not,” said Macbeth. His wife dared, and she returned to him with hands red as his own, but aheart less white, she proudly told him, for she scorned his fear. The murderers heard a knocking, and Macbeth wished it was a knockingwhich could wake the dead. It was the knocking of Macduff, the chieftainof Fife, who had been told by Duncan to visit him early. Macbeth went tohim, and showed him the door of the King's room. Macduff entered, and came out again crying, “O horror! horror! horror! ”Macbeth appeared as horror-stricken as Macduff, and pretending that hecould not bear to see life in Duncan's murderers, he slew the two groomswith their own daggers before they could proclaim their innocence. These murders did not shriek out, and Macbeth was crowned at Scone. One of Duncan's sons went to Ireland, the other to England. Macbeth wasKing. But he was discontented. The prophecy concerning Banquo oppressedhis mind. If Fleance were to rule, a son of Macbeth would not rule. Macbeth determined, therefore, to murder both Banquo and his son. Hehired two ruffians, who slew Banquo one night when he was on his waywith Fleance to a banquet which Macbeth was giving to his nobles. Fleance escaped. Meanwhile Macbeth and his Queen received their guests very graciously,and he expressed a wish for them which has been uttered thousands oftimes since his day--“Now good digestion wait on appetite, and health onboth. ”“We pray your Majesty to sit with us,” said Lennox, a Scotch noble; butere Macbeth could reply, the ghost of Banquo entered the banqueting halland sat in Macbeth's place. Not noticing the ghost, Macbeth observed that, if Banquo were present,he could say that he had collected under his roof the choicest chivalryof Scotland. Macduff, however, had curtly declined his invitation. The King was again pressed to take a seat, and Lennox, to whom Banquo'sghost was invisible, showed him the chair where it sat. But Macbeth, with his eyes of genius, saw the ghost. He saw it like aform of mist and blood, and he demanded passionately, “Which of you havedone this? ”Still none saw the ghost but he, and to the ghost Macbeth said, “Thoucanst not say I did it. ”The ghost glided out, and Macbeth was impudent enough to raise a glassof wine “to the general joy of the whole table, and to our dear friendBanquo, whom we miss. ”The toast was drunk as the ghost of Banquo entered for the second time. “Begone! ” cried Macbeth. “You are senseless, mindless! Hide in theearth, thou horrible shadow. ”Again none saw the ghost but he. “What is it your Majesty sees? ” asked one of the nobles. The Queen dared not permit an answer to be given to this question. Shehurriedly begged her guests to quit a sick man who was likely to growworse if he was obliged to talk. Macbeth, however, was well enough next day to converse with the witcheswhose prophecies had so depraved him. He found them in a cavern on a thunderous day. They were revolving rounda cauldron in which were boiling particles of many strange and horriblecreatures, and they knew he was coming before he arrived. “Answer me what I ask you,” said the King. “Would you rather hear it from us or our masters? ” asked the firstwitch. “Call them,” replied Macbeth. Thereupon the witches poured blood into the cauldron and grease into theflame that licked it, and a helmeted head appeared with the visor on, sothat Macbeth could only see its eyes. He was speaking to the head, when the first witch said gravely, “Heknows thy thought,” and a voice in the head said, “Macbeth, bewareMacduff, the chieftain of Fife. ” The head then descended Into thecauldron till it disappeared. “One word more,” pleaded Macbeth. “He will not be commanded,” said the first witch, and then a crownedchild ascended from the cauldron bearing a tree in his hand The childsaid-- “Macbeth shall be unconquerable till The Wood of Birnam climbs Dunsinane Hill. ”“That will never be,” said Macbeth; and he asked to be told if Banquo'sdescendants would ever rule Scotland. The cauldron sank into the earth; music was heard, and a procession ofphantom kings filed past Macbeth; behind them was Banquo's ghost. Ineach king, Macbeth saw a likeness to Banquo, and he counted eight kings. Then he was suddenly left alone. His next proceeding was to send murderers to Macduff's castle. Theydid not find Macduff, and asked Lady Macduff where he was. She gavea stinging answer, and her questioner called Macduff a traitor. “Thouliest! ” shouted Macduff's little son, who was immediately stabbed, andwith his last breath entreated his mother to fly. The murderers did notleave the castle while one of its inmates remained alive. Macduff was in England listening, with Malcolm, to a doctor's tale ofcures wrought by Edward the Confessor when his friend Ross came to tellhim that his wife and children were no more. At first Ross dared notspeak the truth, and turn Macduff's bright sympathy with sufferersrelieved by royal virtue into sorrow and hatred. But when Malcolm saidthat England was sending an army into Scotland against Macbeth, Rossblurted out his news, and Macduff cried, “All dead, did you say? All mypretty ones and their mother? Did you say all? ”His sorry hope was in revenge, but if he could have looked intoMacbeth's castle on Dunsinane Hill, he would have seen at work a forcemore solemn than revenge. Retribution was working, for Lady Macbeth wasmad. She walked in her sleep amid ghastly dreams. She was wont to washher hands for a quarter of an hour at a time; but after all her washing,would still see a red spot of blood upon her skin. It was pitiful tohear her cry that all the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten herlittle hand. “Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased? ” inquired Macbeth of thedoctor, but the doctor replied that his patient must minister to her ownmind. This reply gave Macbeth a scorn of medicine. “Throw physic to thedogs,” he said; “I'll none of it. ”One day he heard a sound of women crying. An officer approached him andsaid, “The Queen, your Majesty, is dead. ” “Out, brief candle,” mutteredMacbeth, meaning that life was like a candle, at the mercy of a puff ofair. He did not weep; he was too familiar with death. Presently a messenger told him that he saw Birnam Wood on the march. Macbeth called him a liar and a slave, and threatened to hang him if hehad made a mistake. “If you are right you can hang me,” he said. From the turret windows of Dunsinane Castle, Birnam Wood did indeedappear to be marching. Every soldier of the English army held aloft abough which he had cut from a tree in that wood, and like human treesthey climbed Dunsinane Hill. Macbeth had still his courage. He went to battle to conquer or die, andthe first thing he did was to kill the English general's son in singlecombat. Macbeth then felt that no man could fight him and live, and whenMacduff came to him blazing for revenge, Macbeth said to him, “Go back;I have spilt too much of your blood already. ”“My voice is in my sword,” replied Macduff, and hacked at him and badehim yield. “I will not yield! ” said Macbeth, but his last hour had struck. He fell. Macbeth's men were in retreat when Macduff came before Malcolm holding aKing's head by the hair. “Hail, King! ” he said; and the new King looked at the old. So Malcolm reigned after Macbeth; but in years that came afterwards thedescendants of Banquo were kings. THE COMEDY OF ERRORSAEGEON was a merchant of Syracuse, which is a seaport in Sicily. Hiswife was AEmilia, and they were very happy until AEgeon's manager died,and he was obliged to go by himself to a place called Epidamnum on theAdriatic. As soon as she could AEmilia followed him, and after they hadbeen together some time two baby boys were born to them. The babies wereexactly alike; even when they were dressed differently they looked thesame. And now you must believe a very strange thing. At the same inn wherethese children were born, and on the same day, two baby boys were bornto a much poorer couple than AEmilia and AEgeon; so poor, indeed, werethe parents of these twins that they sold them to the parents of theother twins. AEmilia was eager to show her children to her friends in Syracuse,and in treacherous weather she and AEgeon and the four babies sailedhomewards. They were still far from Syracuse when their ship sprang a leak, and thecrew left it in a body by the only boat, caring little what became oftheir passengers. AEmilia fastened one of her children to a mast and tied one of theslave-children to him; AEgeon followed her example with the remainingchildren. Then the parents secured themselves to the same masts, andhoped for safety. The ship, however, suddenly struck a rock and was split in two, andAEmilia, and the two children whom she had tied, floated away fromAEgeon and the other children. AEmilia and her charges were picked up bysome people of Epidamnum, but some fishermen of Corinth took thebabies from her by force, and she returned to Epidanmum alone, and verymiserable. Afterwards she settled in Ephesus, a famous town in AsiaMinor. AEgeon and his charges were also saved; and, more fortunate thanAEmilia, he was able to return to Syracuse and keep them till they wereeighteen. His own child he called Antipholus, and the slavechild hecalled Dromio; and, strangely enough, these were the names given to thechildren who floated away from him. At the age of eighteen the son who was with AEgeon grew restless with adesire to find his brother. AEgeon let him depart with his servant, andthe young men are henceforth known as Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromioof Syracuse. Let alone, AEgeon found his home too dreary to dwell in, and traveledfor five years. He did not, during his absence, learn all the news ofSyracuse, or he would never have gone to Ephesus. As it was, his melancholy wandering ceased in that town, where he wasarrested almost as soon as he arrived. He then found that the Duke ofSyracuse had been acting in so tyrannical a manner to Ephesians unluckyenough to fall into his hands, that the Government of Ephesus hadangrily passed a law which punished by death or a fine of a thousandpounds any Syracusan who should come to Ephesus. AEgeon was broughtbefore Solinus, Duke of Ephesus, who told him that he must die or pay athousand pounds before the end of the day. You will think there was fate in this when I tell you that the childrenwho were kidnaped by the fishermen of Corinth were now citizens ofEphesus, whither they had been brought by Duke Menaphon, an uncle ofDuke Solinus. They will henceforth be called Antipholus of Ephesus andDromio of Ephesus. Moreover, on the very day when AEgeon was arrested, Antipholus ofSyracuse landed in Ephesus and pretended that he came from Epidamnum inorder to avoid a penalty. He handed his money to his servant Dromio ofSyracuse, and bade him take it to the Centaur Inn and remain there tillhe came. In less than ten minutes he was met on the Mart by Dromio of Ephesus,his brother's slave, and immediately mistook him for his own Dromio. “Why are you back so soon? Where did you leave the money? ” askedAntipholus of Syracuse. This Drornio knew of no money except sixpence, which he had received onthe previous Wednesday and given to the saddler; but he did know thathis mistress was annoyed because his master was not in to dinner, and heasked Antipholus of Syracuse to go to a house called The Phoenix withoutdelay. His speech angered the hearer, who would have beaten him if hehad not fled. Antipholus of Syracuse them went to The Centaur, foundthat his gold had been deposited there, and walked out of the inn. He was wandering about Ephesus when two beautiful ladies signaled to himwith their hands. They were sisters, and their names were Adriana andLuciana. Adriana was the wife of his brother Antipholus of Ephesus, andshe had made up her mind, from the strange account given her by Dromioof Ephesus, that her husband preferred another woman to his wife. “Ay,you may look as if you did not know me,” she said to the man who wasreally her brother-in-law, “but I can remember when no words were sweetunless I said them, no meat flavorsome unless I carved it. ”“Is it I you address? ” said Antipholus of Syracuse stiffly. “I do notknow you. ”“Fie, brother,” said Luciana. “You know perfectly well that she sentDromio to you to bid you come to dinner;” and Adriana said, “Come, come;I have been made a fool of long enough. My truant husband shall dinewith me and confess his silly pranks and be forgiven. ”They were determined ladies, and Antipholus of Syracuse grew weary ofdisputing with them, and followed them obediently to The Phoenix, wherea very late “mid-day” dinner awaited them. They were at dinner when Antipholus of Ephesus and his slave Dromiodemanded admittance. “Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cecily, Gillian, Ginn! ” shouted Dromio of Ephesus, who knew all his fellow-servants' names byheart. From within came the reply, “Fool, dray-horse, coxcomb, idiot! ” It wasDromio of Syracuse unconsciously insulting his brother. Master and man did their best to get in, short of using a crowbar, andfinally went away; but Antipholus of Ephesus felt so annoyed with hiswife that he decided to give a gold chain which he had promised her, toanother woman. Inside The Phoenix, Luciana, who believed Antipholus of Syracuse to beher sister's husband, attempted, by a discourse in rhyme, when alonewith him, to make him kinder to Adriana. In reply he told her that hewas not married, but that he loved her so much that, if Luciana were amermaid, he would gladly lie on the sea if he might feel beneath him herfloating golden hair. Luciana was shocked and left him, and reported his lovemaking toAdriana, who said that her husband was old and ugly, and not fit to beseen or heard, though secretly she was very fond of him. Antipholus of Syracuse soon received a visitor in the shape of Angelothe goldsmith, of whom Antipholus of Ephesus had ordered the chain whichhe had promised his wife and intended to give to another woman. The goldsmith handed the chain to Antipholus of Syracuse, and treatedhis “I bespoke it not” as mere fun, so that the puzzled merchant tookthe chain as good-humoredly as he had partaken of Adriana's dinner. Heoffered payment, but Angelo foolishly said he would call again. The consequence was that Angelo was without money when a creditor of thesort that stands no nonsense, threatened him with arrest unless he paidhis debt immediately. This creditor had brought a police officer withhim, and Angelo was relieved to see Antipholus of Ephesus coming out ofthe house where he had been dining because he had been locked out of ThePhoenix. Bitter was Angelo's dismay when Antipholus denied receipt ofthe chain. Angelo could have sent his mother to prison if she had saidthat, and he gave Antipholus of Ephesus in charge. At this moment up came Dromio of Syracuse and told the wrong Antipholusthat he had shipped his goods, and that a favorable wind was blowing. To the ears of Antipholus of Ephesus this talk was simple nonsense. Hewould gladly have beaten the slave, but contented himself with crosslytelling him to hurry to Adriana and bid her send to her arrested husbanda purse of money which she would find in his desk. Though Adriana was furious with her husband because she thought he hadbeen making love to her sister, she did not prevent Luciana fromgetting the purse, and she bade Dromio of Syracuse bring home his masterimmediately. Unfortunately, before Dromio could reach the police station he met hisreal master, who had never been arrested, and did not understand whathe meant by offering him a purse. Antipholus of Syracuse was furthersurprised when a lady whom he did not know asked him for a chain that hehad promised her. She was, of course, the lady with whom Antipholus ofEphesus had dined when his brother was occupying his place at table. “Avaunt, thou witch! ” was the answer which, to her astonishment, shereceived. Meanwhile Antipholus of Ephesus waited vainly for the money which wasto have released him. Never a good-tempered man, he was crazy with angerwhen Dromio of Ephesus, who, of course, had not been instructed to fetcha purse, appeared with nothing more useful than a rope. He beat theslave in the street despite the remonstrance of the police officer;and his temper did not mend when Adriana, Luciana, and a doctor arrivedunder the impression that he was mad and must have his pulse felt. Heraged so much that men came forward to bind him. But the kindness ofAdriana spared him this shame. She promised to pay the sum demanded ofhim, and asked the doctor to lead him to The Phoenix. Angelo's merchant creditor being paid, the two were friendly again,and might soon have been seen chatting before an abbey about the oddbehavior of Antipholus of Ephesus. “Softly,” said the merchant at last,“that's he, I think. ”It was not; it was Antipholus of Syracuse with his servant Dromio,and he wore Angelo's chain round his neck! The reconciled pair fairlypounced upon him to know what he meant by denying the receipt of thechain he had the impudence to wear. Antipholus of Syracuse lost histemper, and drew his sword, and at that moment Adriana and severalothers appeared. “Hold! ” shouted the careful wife. “Hurt him not; he ismad. Take his sword away. Bind him--and Dromio too. ”Dromio of Syracuse did not wish to be bound, and he said to his master,“Run, master! Into that abbey, quick, or we shall be robbed! ”They accordingly retreated into the abbey. Adriana, Luciana, and a crowd remained outside, and the Abbess came out,and said, “People, why do you gather here? ”“To fetch my poor distracted husband,” replied Adriana. Angelo and the merchant remarked that they had not known that he wasmad. Adriana then told the Abbess rather too much about her wifely worries,for the Abbess received the idea that Adriana was a shrew, and thatif her husband was distracted he had better not return to her for thepresent. Adriana determined, therefore, to complain to Duke Solinus, and, lo andbehold! a minute afterwards the great man appeared with officers and twoothers. The others were AEgeon and the headsman. The thousand marks hadnot been found, and AEgeon's fate seemed sealed. Ere the Duke could pass the abbey Adriana knelt before him, and told awoeful tale of a mad husband rushing about stealing jewelry and drawinghis sword, adding that the Abbess refused to allow her to lead him home. The Duke bade the Abbess be summoned, and no sooner had he given theorder than a servant from The Phoenix ran to Adriana with the tale thathis master had singed off the doctor's beard. “Nonsense! ” said Adriana, “he's in the abbey. ”“As sure as I live I speak the truth,” said the servant. Antipholus of Syracuse had not come out of the abbey, before hisbrother of Ephesus prostrated himself in front of the Duke, exclaiming,“Justice, most gracious Duke, against that woman. ” He pointed toAdriana. “She has treated another man like her husband in my own house. ”Even while he was speaking AEgeon said, “Unless I am delirious, I see myson Antipholus. ”No one noticed him, and Antipholus of Ephesus went on to say how thedoctor, whom he called “a threadbare juggler,” had been one of a gangwho tied him to his slave Dromio, and thrust them into a vault whence hehad escaped by gnawing through his bonds. The Duke could not understand how the same man who spoke to him wasseen to go into the abbey, and he was still wondering when AEgeon askedAntipholus of Ephesus if he was not his son. He replied, “I never sawmy father in my life;” but so deceived was AEgeon by his likeness tothe brother whom he had brought up, that he said, “Thou art ashamed toacknowledge me in misery. ”Soon, however, the Abbess advanced with Antipholus of Syracuse andDromio of Syracuse. Then cried Adriana, “I see two husbands or mine eyes deceive me;” andAntipholus, espying his father, said, “Thou art AEgeon or his ghost.

”It was a day of surprises, for the Abbess said, “I will free that man bypaying his fine, and gain my husband whom I lost. Speak, AEgeon, for Iam thy wife AEmilia. ”The Duke was touched. “He is free without a fine,” he said. So AEgeon and AEmilia were reunited, and Adriana and her husbandreconciled; but no one was happier than Antipholus of Syracuse, who, inthe Duke's presence, went to Luciana and said, “I told you I loved you. Will you be my wife? ”Her answer was given by a look, and therefore is not written. The two Dromios were glad to think they would receive no more beatings. THE MERCHANT OF VENICEAntonio was a rich and prosperous merchant of Venice. His ships wereon nearly every sea, and he traded with Portugal, with Mexico, withEngland, and with India. Although proud of his riches, he was verygenerous with them, and delighted to use them in relieving the wants ofhis friends, among whom his relation, Bassanio, held the first place. Now Bassanio, like many another gay and gallant gentleman, was recklessand extravagant, and finding that he had not only come to the end of hisfortune, but was also unable to pay his creditors, he went to Antoniofor further help. “To you, Antonio,” he said, “I owe the most in money and in love: and Ihave thought of a plan to pay everything I owe if you will but help me. ”“Say what I can do, and it shall be done,” answered his friend. Then said Bassanio, “In Belmont is a lady richly left, and from allquarters of the globe renowned suitors come to woo her, not only becauseshe is rich, but because she is beautiful and good as well. She lookedon me with such favor when last we met, that I feel sure that I shouldwin her away from all rivals for her love had I but the means to go toBelmont, where she lives. ”“All my fortunes,” said Antonio, “are at sea, and so I have no readymoney; but luckily my credit is good in Venice, and I will borrow foryou what you need. ”There was living in Venice at this time a rich money-lender, namedShylock. Antonio despised and disliked this man very much, and treatedhim with the greatest harshness and scorn. He would thrust him, like acur, over his threshold, and would even spit on him. Shylock submittedto all these indignities with a patient shrug; but deep in his heart hecherished a desire for revenge on the rich, smug merchant. For Antonioboth hurt his pride and injured his business. “But for him,” thoughtShylock, “I should be richer by half a million ducats. On the marketplace, and wherever he can, he denounces the rate of interest I charge,and--worse than that--he lends out money freely. ”So when Bassanio came to him to ask for a loan of three thousand ducatsto Antonio for three months, Shylock hid his hatred, and turning toAntonio, said--“Harshly as you have treated me, I would be friends withyou and have your love. So I will lend you the money and charge you nointerest. But, just for fun, you shall sign a bond in which it shall beagreed that if you do not repay me in three months' time, then I shallhave the right to a pound of your flesh, to be cut from what part ofyour body I choose. ”“No,” cried Bassanio to his friend, “you shall run no such risk for me. ”“Why, fear not,” said Antonio, “my ships will be home a month before thetime. I will sign the bond. ”Thus Bassanio was furnished with the means to go to Belmont, there towoo the lovely Portia. The very night he started, the money-lender'spretty daughter, Jessica, ran away from her father's house with herlover, and she took with her from her father's hoards some bags ofducats and precious stones. Shylock's grief and anger were terrible tosee. His love for her changed to hate. “I would she were dead at myfeet and the jewels in her ear,” he cried. His only comfort now was inhearing of the serious losses which had befallen Antonio, some of whoseships were wrecked. “Let him look to his bond,” said Shylock, “let himlook to his bond. ”Meanwhile Bassanio had reached Belmont, and had visited the fair Portia. He found, as he had told Antonio, that the rumor of her wealth andbeauty had drawn to her suitors from far and near. But to all of themPortia had but one reply. She would only accept that suitor who wouldpledge himself to abide by the terms of her father's will. These wereconditions that frightened away many an ardent wooer. For he who wouldwin Portia's heart and hand, had to guess which of three caskets heldher portrait. If he guessed aright, then Portia would be his bride; ifwrong, then he was bound by oath never to reveal which casket he chose,never to marry, and to go away at once. The caskets were of gold, silver, and lead. The gold one bore thisinscription:--“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;” the silver one had this:--“Who chooseth me shall get as much as hedeserves;” while on the lead one were these words:--“Who chooseth memust give and hazard all he hath. ” The Prince of Morocco, as brave as hewas black, was among the first to submit to this test. He chose thegold casket, for he said neither base lead nor silver could contain herpicture. So be chose the gold casket, and found inside the likeness ofwhat many men desire--death. After him came the haughty Prince of Arragon, and saying, “Let me havewhat I deserve--surely I deserve the lady,” he chose the silver one, andfound inside a fool's head. “Did I deserve no more than a fool's head? ” he cried. Then at last came Bassanio, and Portia would have delayed him frommaking his choice from very fear of his choosing wrong. For she lovedhim dearly, even as he loved her. “But,” said Bassanio, “let me choose atonce, for, as I am, I live upon the rack. ”Then Portia bade her servants to bring music and play while her gallantlover made his choice. And Bassanio took the oath and walked up to thecaskets--the musicians playing softly the while. “Mere outward show,” hesaid, “is to be despised. The world is still deceived with ornament, andso no gaudy gold or shining silver for me. I choose the lead casket;joy be the consequence! ” And opening it, he found fair Portia's portraitinside, and he turned to her and asked if it were true that she was his. “Yes,” said Portia, “I am yours, and this house is yours, and with themI give you this ring, from which you must never part. ”And Bassanio, saying that he could hardly speak for joy, found words toswear that he would never part with the ring while he lived. Then suddenly all his happiness was dashed with sorrow, for messengerscame from Venice to tell him that Antonio was ruined, and that Shylockdemanded from the Duke the fulfilment of the bond, under which he wasentitled to a pound of the merchant's flesh. Portia was as grieved asBassanio to hear of the danger which threatened his friend. “First,” she said, “take me to church and make me your wife, and thengo to Venice at once to help your friend. You shall take with you moneyenough to pay his debt twenty times over. ”But when her newly-made husband had gone, Portia went after him, andarrived in Venice disguised as a lawyer, and with an introduction froma celebrated lawyer Bellario, whom the Duke of Venice had called into decide the legal questions raised by Shylock's claim to a pound ofAntonio's flesh. When the Court met, Bassanio offered Shylock twice themoney borrowed, if he would withdraw his claim. But the money-lender'sonly answer was-- “If every ducat in six thousand ducats, Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them,--I would have my bond. ”It was then that Portia arrived in her disguise, and not even her ownhusband knew her. The Duke gave her welcome on account of the greatBellario's introduction, and left the settlement of the case to her. Then in noble words she bade Shylock have mercy. But he was deaf to herentreaties. “I will have the pound of flesh,” was his reply. “What have you to say? ” asked Portia of the merchant. “But little,” he answered; “I am armed and well prepared. ”“The Court awards you a pound of Antonio's flesh,” said Portia to themoney-lender. “Most righteous judge! ” cried Shylock. “A sentence: come, prepare. ”“Tarry a little. This bond gives you no right to Antonio's blood, onlyto his flesh. If, then, you spill a drop of his blood, all your propertywill be forfeited to the State. Such is the Law. ”And Shylock, in his fear, said, “Then I will take Bassanio's offer. ”“No,” said Portia sternly, “you shall have nothing but your bond. Takeyour pound of flesh, but remember, that if you take more or less, evenby the weight of a hair, you will lose your property and your life. ”Shylock now grew very much frightened. “Give me my three thousand ducatsthat I lent him, and let him go. ”Bassanio would have paid it to him, but said Portia, “No! He shall havenothing but his bond. ”“You, a foreigner,” she added, “have sought to take the life of aVenetian citizen, and thus by the Venetian law, your life and goods areforfeited. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. ”Thus were the tables turned, and no mercy would have been shown toShylock had it not been for Antonio. As it was, the money-lenderforfeited half his fortune to the State, and he had to settle the otherhalf on his daughter's husband, and with this he had to be content. Bassanio, in his gratitude to the clever lawyer, was induced to partwith the ring his wife had given him, and with which he had promisednever to part, and when on his return to Belmont he confessed as much toPortia, she seemed very angry, and vowed she would not be friends withhim until she had her ring again. But at last she told him that it wasshe who, in the disguise of the lawyer, had saved his friend's life, andgot the ring from him. So Bassanio was forgiven, and made happierthan ever, to know how rich a prize he had drawn in the lottery of thecaskets. TIMON OF ATHENSFour hundred years before the birth of Christ, a man lived in Athenswhose generosity was not only great, but absurd. He was very rich, butno worldly wealth was enough for a man who spent and gave like Timon. Ifanybody gave Timon a horse, he received from Timon twenty better horses. If anybody borrowed money of Timon and offered to repay it, Timon wasoffended. If a poet had written a poem and Timon had time to read it, hewould be sure to buy it; and a painter had only to hold up his canvas infront of Timon to receive double its market price. Flavius, his steward, looked with dismay at his reckless mode of life. When Timon's house was full of noisy lords drinking and spilling costlywine, Flavius would sit in a cellar and cry. He would say to himself,“There are ten thousand candles burning in this house, and each of thosesingers braying in the concert-room costs a poor man's yearly income anight;” and he would remember a terrible thing said by Apemantus, one ofhis master's friends, “O what a number of men eat Timon, and Timon seesthem not! ”Of course, Timon was much praised. A jeweler who sold him a diamond pretended that it was not quite perfecttill Timon wore it. “You mend the jewel by wearing it,” he said. Timongave the diamond to a lord called Sempronius, and the lord exclaimed,“O, he's the very soul of bounty. ” “Timon is infinitely dear to me,” said another lord, called Lucullus, to whom he gave a beautiful horse;and other Athenians paid him compliments as sweet. But when Apemantus had listened to some of them, he said, “I'm going toknock out an honest Athenian's brains. ”“You will die for that,” said Timon. “Then I shall die for doing nothing,” said Apemantus. And now you knowwhat a joke was like four hundred years before Christ. This Apernantus was a frank despiser of mankind, but a healthy one,because he was not unhappy. In this mixed world anyone with a numberof acquaintances knows a person who talks bitterly of men, but does notshun them, and boasts that he is never deceived by their fine speeches,and is inwardly cheerful and proud. Apemantus was a man like that. Timon, you will be surprised to hear, became much worse than Apemantus,after the dawning of a day which we call Quarter Day. Quarter Day is the day when bills pour in. The grocer, the butcher, andthe baker are all thinking of their debtors on that day, and the wiseman has saved enough money to be ready for them. But Timon had not; andhe did not only owe money for food. He owed it for jewels and horses andfurniture; and, worst of all, he owed it to money-lenders, who expectedhim to pay twice as much as he had borrowed. Quarter Day is a day when promises to pay are scorned, and on that dayTimon was asked for a large sum of money. “Sell some land,” he saidto his steward. “You have no land,” was the reply. “Nonsense! I had ahundred, thousand acres,” said Timon. “You could have spent the price ofthe world if you had possessed it,” said Flavius. “Borrow some then,” said Timon; “try Ventidius. ” He thought of Ventidiusbecause he had once got Ventidius out of prison by paying a creditor ofthis young man. Ventidius was now rich. Timon trusted in his gratitude. But not for all; so much did he owe! Servants were despatched withrequests for loans of money to several friends:One servant (Flaminius) went to Lucullus. When he was announced Lucullussaid, “A gift, I warrant. I dreamt of a silver jug and basin lastnight. ” Then, changing his tone, “How is that honorable, free-hearted,perfect gentleman, your master, eh? ”“Well in health, sir,” replied Flaminius. “And what have you got there under your cloak? ” asked Lucullus,jovially. “Faith, sir, nothing but an empty box, which, on my master's behalf, Ibeg you to fill with money, sir. ”“La! la! la! ” said Lucullus, who could not pretend to mean, “Ha! ha! ha! ” “Your master's one fault is that he is too fond of giving parties. I've warned him that it was expensive. Now, look here, Flaminius, youknow this is no time to lend money without security, so suppose youact like a good boy and tell him that I was not at home. Here's threesolidares for yourself. ”“Back, wretched money,” cried Flaminius, “to him who worships you! ”Others of Timon's friends were tried and found stingy. Amongst them wasSempronius. “Hum,” he said to Timon's servant, “has he asked Ventidius? Ventidius isbeholden to him. ”“He refused. ”“Well, have you asked Lucullus? ”“He refused. ”“A poor compliment to apply to me last of all,” said Sempronius, inaffected anger. “If he had sent to me at first, I would gladly have lenthim money, but I'm not going to be such a fool as to lend him any now. ”“Your lordship makes a good villain,” said the servant. When Timon found that his friends were so mean, he took advantage ofa lull in his storm of creditors to invite Ventidius and Company to abanquet. Flavius was horrified, but Ventidius and Company, were not inthe least ashamed, and they assembled accordingly in Timon's house, andsaid to one another that their princely host had been jesting with them. “I had to put off an important engagement in order to come here,” saidLucullus; “but who could refuse Timon? ”“It was a real grief to me to be without ready money when he asked forsome,” said Sempronius. “The same here,” chimed in a third lord. Timon now appeared, and his guests vied with one another in apologiesand compliments. Inwardly sneering, Timon was gracious to them all. In the banqueting ball was a table resplendent with covered dishes. Mouths watered. These summer-friends loved good food. “Be seated, worthy friends,” said Timon. He then prayed aloud to thegods of Greece. “Give each man enough,” he said, “for if you, who areour gods, were to borrow of men they would cease to adore you. Let menlove the joint more than the host. Let every score of guests containtwenty villains. Bless my friends as much as they have blessed me. Uncover the dishes, dogs, and lap! ”The hungry lords were too much surprised by this speech to resent it. They thought Timon was unwell, and, although he had called them dogs,they uncovered the dishes. There was nothing in them but warm water. “May you never see a better feast,” wished Timon “I wash off theflatteries with which you plastered me and sprinkle you with yourvillainy. ” With these words he threw the water into his guests' faces,and then he pelted them with the dishes. Having thus ended the banquet,he went into an outhouse, seized a spade, and quitted Athens for ever. His next dwelling was a cave near the sea. Of all his friends, the only one who had not refused him aid was ahandsome soldier named Alcibiades, and he had not been asked because,having quarreled with the Government of Athens, he had left that town. The thought that Alcibiades might have proved a true friend did notsoften Timon's bitter feeling. He was too weak-minded to discernthe fact that good cannot be far from evil in this mixed world. Hedetermined to see nothing better in all mankind than the ingratitude ofVentidius and the meanness of Lucullus. He became a vegetarian, and talked pages to himself as he dug in theearth for food. One day, when he was digging for roots near the shore, his spade struckgold. If he had been a wise man he would have enriched himself quickly,and returned to Athens to live in comfort. But the sight of the goldvein gave no joy but only scorn to Timon. “This yellow slave,” he said,“will make and break religions. It will make black white and foul fair. It will buy murder and bless the accursed. ”He was still ranting when Alcibiades, now an enemy of Athens, approachedwith his soldiers and two beautiful women who cared for nothing butpleasure. Timon was so changed by his bad thoughts and rough life that Alcibiadesdid not recognize him at first. “Who are you? ” he asked. “A beast, as you are,” was the reply. Alcibiades knew his voice, and offered him help and money. But Timonwould none of it, and began to insult the women. They, however, whenthey found he had discovered a gold mine, cared not a jot for hisopinion of them, but said, “Give us some gold, good Timon. Have youmore? ”With further insults, Timon filled their aprons with gold ore. “Farewell,” said Alcibiades, who deemed that Timon's wits were lost; andthen his disciplined soldiers left without profit the mine which couldhave paid their wages, and marched towards Athens. Timon continued to dig and curse, and affected great delight when he dugup a root and discovered that it was not a grape. Just then Apemantus appeared. “I am told that you imitate me,” saidApemantus. “Only,” said Timon, “because you haven't a dog which I canimitate. ”“You are revenging yourself on your friends by punishing yourself,” saidApemantus. “That is very silly, for they live just as comfortably asthey ever did. I am sorry that a fool should imitate me. ”“If I were like you,” said Timon, “I should throw myself away. ”“You have done so,” sneered Apemantus. “Will the cold brook make you agood morning drink, or an east wind warm your clothes as a valet would? ”“Off with you! ” said Timon; but Apemantus stayed a while longer and toldhim he had a passion for extremes, which was true. Apemantus even made apun, but there was no good laughter to be got out of Timon. Finally, they lost their temper like two schoolboys, and Timon said hewas sorry to lose the stone which he flung at Apemantus, who left himwith an evil wish. This was almost an “at home” day for Timon, for when Apemantus haddeparted, he was visited by some robbers. They wanted gold. “You want too much,” said Timon. “Here are water, roots and berries. ”“We are not birds and pigs,” said a robber. “No, you are cannibals,” said Timon.

“Take the gold, then, and may itpoison you! Henceforth rob one another. ”He spoke so frightfully to them that, though they went away with fullpockets, they almost repented of their trade. His last visitor on thatday of visits was his good steward Flavius. “My dearest master! ” criedhe. “Away! What are you? ” said Timon. “Have you forgotten me, sir? ” asked Flavius, mournfully. “I have forgotten all men,” was the reply; “and if you'll allow that youare a man, I have forgotten you. ”“I was your honest servant,” said Flavius. “Nonsense! I never had an honest man about me,” retorted Timon. Flavius began to cry. “What! shedding tears? ” said Timon. “Come nearer, then. I will love youbecause you are a woman, and unlike men, who only weep when they laughor beg. ”They talked awhile; then Timon said, “Yon gold is mine. I will make yourich, Flavius, if you promise me to live by yourself and hate mankind. I will make you very rich if you promise me that you will see the fleshslide off the beggar's bones before you feed him, and let the debtor diein jail before you pay his debt. ”Flavius simply said, “Let me stay to comfort you, my master. ”“If you dislike cursing, leave me,” replied Timon, and he turned hisback on Flavius, who went sadly back to Athens, too much accustomed toobedience to force his services upon his ailing master. The steward had accepted nothing, but a report got about that a mightynugget of gold had been given him by his former master, and Timontherefore received more visitors. They were a painter and a poet, whomhe had patronized in his prosperity. “Hail, worthy Timon! ” said the poet. “We heard with astonishment howyour friends deserted you. No whip's large enough for their backs! ”“We have come,” put in the painter, “to offer our services. ”“You've heard that I have gold,” said Timon. “There was a report,” said the painter, blushing; “but my friend and Idid not come for that. ”“Good honest men! ” jeered Timon. “All the same, you shall have plenty ofgold if you will rid me of two villains. ”“Name them,” said his two visitors in one breath. “Both of you! ” answered Timon. Giving the painter a whack with a big stick, he said,“Put that into your palette and make money out of it. ” Then he gave awhack to the poet, and said, “Make a poem out of that and get paid forit. There's gold for you. ”They hurriedly withdrew. Finally Timon was visited by two senators who, now that Athens wasthreatened by Alcibiades, desired to have on their side this bitternoble whose gold might help the foe. “Forget your injuries,” said the first senator. “Athens offers youdignities whereby you may honorably live. ”“Athens confesses that your merit was overlooked, and wishes to atone,and more than atone, for her forgetfulness,” said the second senator. “Worthy senators,” replied Timon, in his grim way, “I am almost weeping;you touch me so! All I need are the eyes of a woman and the heart of afool. ”But the senators were patriots. They believed that this bitter man couldsave Athens, and they would not quarrel with him. “Be our captain,” they said, “and lead Athens against Alcibiades, who threatens to destroyher. ”“Let him destroy the Athenians too, for all I care,” said Timon; andseeing an evil despair in his face, they left him. The senators returned to Athens, and soon afterwards trumpets were blownbefore its walls. Upon the walls they stood and listened to Alcibiades,who told them that wrong-doers should quake in their easy chairs. Theylooked at his confident army, and were convinced that Athens must yieldif he assaulted it, therefore they used the voice that strikes deeperthan arrows. “These walls of ours were built by the hands of men who never wrongedyou, Alcibiades,” said the first senator. “Enter,” said the second senator, “and slay every tenth man, if yourrevenge needs human flesh. ”“Spare the cradle,” said the first senator. “I ask only justice,” said Alcibiades. “If you admit my army, I willinflict the penalty of your own laws upon any soldier who breaks them. ”At that moment a soldier approached Alcibiades, and said, “My noblegeneral, Timon is dead. ” He handed Alcibiades a sheet of wax, saying,“He is buried by the sea, on the beach, and over his grave is a stonewith letters on it which I cannot read, and therefore I have impressedthem on wax. ”Alcibiades read from the sheet of wax this couplet-- “Here lie I, Timon, who, alive, all living men did hate. Pass by and say your worst; but pass, and stay not here your gait. ”“Dead, then, is noble Timon,” said Alcibiades; and be entered Athenswith an olive branch instead of a sword. So it was one of Timon's friends who was generous in a greater matterthan Timon's need; yet are the sorrow and rage of Timon remembered as awarning lest another ingratitude should arise to turn love into hate. OTHELLOFour hundred years ago there lived in Venice an ensign named Iago, whohated his general, Othello, for not making him a lieutenant. Instead ofIago, who was strongly recommended, Othello had chosen Michael Cassio,whose smooth tongue had helped him to win the heart of Desdemona. Iagohad a friend called Roderigo, who supplied him with money and felt hecould not be happy unless Desdemona was his wife. Othello was a Moor, but of so dark a complexion that his enemies calledhim a Blackamoor. His life had been hard and exciting. He had beenvanquished in battle and sold into slavery; and he had been a greattraveler and seen men whose shoulders were higher than their heads. Brave as a lion, he had one great fault--jealousy. His love was aterrible selfishness. To love a woman meant with him to possess her asabsolutely as he possessed something that did not live and think. Thestory of Othello is a story of jealousy. One night Iago told Roderigo that Othello had carried off Desdemonawithout the knowledge of her father, Brabantio. He persuaded Roderigoto arouse Brabantio, and when that senator appeared Iago told himof Desdemona's elopement in the most unpleasant way. Though he wasOthello's officer, he termed him a thief and a Barbary horse. Brabantio accused Othello before the Duke of Venice of using sorcery tofascinate his daughter, but Othello said that the only sorcery he usedwas his voice, which told Desdemona his adventures and hair-breadthescapes. Desdemona was led into the council-chamber, and she explainedhow she could love Othello despite his almost black face by saying, “Isaw Othello's visage in his mind. ”As Othello had married Desdemona, and she was glad to be his wife, therewas no more to be said against him, especially as the Duke wished him togo to Cyprus to defend it against the Turks. Othello was quite ready togo, and Desdemona, who pleaded to go with him, was permitted to join himat Cyprus. Othello's feelings on landing in this island were intensely joyful. “Oh,my sweet,” he said to Desdemona, who arrived with Iago, his wife, andRoderigo before him, “I hardly know what I say to you. I am in love withmy own happiness. ”News coming presently that the Turkish fleet was out of action, heproclaimed a festival in Cyprus from five to eleven at night. Cassio was on duty in the Castle where Othello ruled Cyprus, so Iagodecided to make the lieutenant drink too much. He had some difficulty,as Cassio knew that wine soon went to his head, but servants broughtwine into the room where Cassio was, and Iago sang a drinking song, andso Cassio lifted a glass too often to the health of the general. When Cassio was inclined to be quarrelsome, Iago told Roderigo to saysomething unpleasant to him. Cassio cudgeled Roderigo, who ran into thepresence of Montano, the ex-governor. Montano civilly interceded forRoderigo, but received so rude an answer from Cassio that he said,“Come, come, you're drunk! ” Cassio then wounded him, and Iago sentRoderigo out to scare the town with a cry of mutiny. The uproar aroused Othello, who, on learning its cause, said, “Cassio, Ilove thee, but never more be officer of mine. ”On Cassio and Iago being alone together, the disgraced man moaned abouthis reputation. Iago said reputation and humbug were the same thing. “O God,” exclaimed Cassio, without heeding him, “that men should put anenemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! ”Iago advised him to beg Desdemona to ask Othello to pardon him. Cassiowas pleased with the advice, and next morning made his request toDesdemona in the garden of the castle. She was kindness itself, andsaid, “Be merry, Cassio, for I would rather die than forsake yourcause. ”Cassio at that moment saw Othello advancing with Iago, and retiredhurriedly. Iago said, “I don't like that. ”“What did you say? ” asked Othello, who felt that he had meant somethingunpleasant, but Iago pretended he had said nothing. “Was not that Cassiowho went from my wife? ” asked Othello, and Iago, who knew that it wasCassio and why it was Cassio, said, “I cannot think it was Cassio whostole away in that guilty manner. ”Desdemona told Othello that it was grief and humility which made Cassioretreat at his approach. She reminded him how Cassio had taken his partwhen she was still heart-free, and found fault with her Moorish lover. Othello was melted, and said, “I will deny thee nothing,” but Desdemonatold him that what she asked was as much for his good as dining. Desdemona left the garden, and Iago asked if it was really true thatCassio had known Desdemona before her marriage. “Yes,” said Othello. “Indeed,” said Iago, as though something that had mystified him was nowvery clear. “Is he not honest? ” demanded Othello, and Iago repeated the adjectiveinquiringly, as though he were afraid to say “No. ”“What do you mean? ” insisted Othello. To this Iago would only say the flat opposite of what he said to Cassio. He had told Cassio that reputation was humbug. To Othello he said, “Whosteals my purse steals trash, but he who filches from me my good nameruins me. ”At this Othello almost leapt into the air, and Iago was so confidentof his jealousy that he ventured to warn him against it. Yes, it was noother than Iago who called jealousy “the green-eyed monster which dothmock the meat it feeds on. ”Iago having given jealousy one blow, proceeded to feed it with theremark that Desdemona deceived her father when she eloped with Othello. “If she deceived him, why not you? ” was his meaning. Presently Desdemona re-entered to tell Othello that dinner was ready. She saw that he was ill at ease. He explained it by a pain in hisforehead. Desdemona then produced a handkerchief, which Othellohad given her. A prophetess, two hundred years old, had made thishandkerchief from the silk of sacred silkworms, dyed it in aliquid prepared from the hearts of maidens, and embroidered it withstrawberries. Gentle Desdemona thought of it simply as a cool, softthing for a throbbing brow; she knew of no spell upon it that would workdestruction for her who lost it. “Let me tie it round your head,” shesaid to Othello; “you will be well in an hour. ” But Othello pettishlysaid it was too small, and let it fall. Desdemona and he then wentindoors to dinner, and Emilia picked up the handkerchief which Iago hadoften asked her to steal. She was looking at it when Iago came in. After a few words about it hesnatched it from her, and bade her leave him. In the garden he was joined by Othello, who seemed hungry for the worstlies he could offer. He therefore told Othello that he had seen Cassiowipe his mouth with a handkerchief, which, because it was spotted withstrawberries, he guessed to be one that Othello had given his wife. The unhappy Moor went mad with fury, and Iago bade the heavens witnessthat he devoted his hand and heart and brain to Othello's service. “Iaccept your love,” said Othello. “Within three days let me hear thatCassio is dead. ”Iago's next step was to leave Desdemona's handkerchief in Cassio's room. Cassio saw it, and knew it was not his, but he liked the strawberrypattern on it, and he gave it to his sweetheart Bianca and asked her tocopy it for him. Iago's next move was to induce Othello, who had been bullying Desdemonaabout the handkerchief, to play the eavesdropper to a conversationbetween Cassio and himself. His intention was to talk about Cassio'ssweetheart, and allow Othello to suppose that the lady spoken of wasDesdemona. “How are you, lieutenant? ” asked Iago when Cassio appeared. “The worse for being called what I am not,” replied Cassio, gloomily. “Keep on reminding Desdemona, and you'll soon be restored,” said Iago,adding, in a tone too low for Othello to hear, “If Bianca could set thematter right, how quickly it would mend! ”“Alas! poor rogue,” said Cassio, “I really think she loves me,” and likethe talkative coxcomb he was, Cassio was led on to boast of Bianca'sfondness for him, while Othello imagined, with choked rage, that heprattled of Desdemona, and thought, “I see your nose, Cassio, but notthe dog I shall throw it to. ”Othello was still spying when Bianca entered, boiling over with the ideathat Cassio, whom she considered her property, had asked her to copy theembroidery on the handkerchief of a new sweetheart. She tossed him thehandkerchief with scornful words, and Cassio departed with her. Othello had seen Bianca, who was in station lower, in beauty and speechinferior far, to Desdemona and he began in spite of himself to praisehis wife to the villain before him. He praised her skill with theneedle, her voice that could “sing the savageness out of a bear,” herwit, her sweetness, the fairness of her skin. Every time he praisedher Iago said something that made him remember his anger and utter itfoully, and yet he must needs praise her, and say, “The pity of it,Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! ”There was never in all Iago's villainy one moment of wavering. If therehad been he might have wavered then. “Strangle her,” he said; and “Good, good! ” said his miserable dupe. The pair were still talking murder when Desdemona appeared with arelative of Desdemona's father, called Lodovico, who bore a letterfor Othello from the Duke of Venice. The letter recalled Othello fromCyprus, and gave the governorship to Cassio. Luckless Desdemona seized this unhappy moment to urge once more the suitof Cassio. “Fire and brimstone! ” shouted Othello. “It may be the letter agitates him,” explained Lodovico to Desdemona,and he told her what it contained. “I am glad,” said Desdemona. It was the first bitter speech thatOthello's unkindness had wrung out of her. “I am glad to see you lose your temper,” said Othello. “Why, sweet Othello? ” she asked, sarcastically; and Othello slapped herface. Now was the time for Desdemona to have saved her life by separation, butshe knew not her peril--only that her love was wounded to the core. “Ihave not deserved this,” she said, and the tears rolled slowly down herface. Lodovico was shocked and disgusted. “My lord,” he said, “this would notbe believed in Venice. Make her amends;” but, like a madman talking inhis nightmare, Othello poured out his foul thought in ugly speech, androared, “Out of my sight! ”“I will not stay to offend you,” said his wife, but she lingered even ingoing, and only when he shouted “Avaunt! ” did she leave her husband andhis guests. Othello then invited Lodovico to supper, adding, “You are welcome, sir,to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys! ” Without waiting for a reply he left thecompany. Distinguished visitors detest being obliged to look on at familyquarrels, and dislike being called either goats or monkeys, and Lodovicoasked Iago for an explanation. True to himself, Iago, in a round-about way, said that Othello was worsethan he seemed, and advised them to study his behavior and save him fromthe discomfort of answering any more questions. He proceeded to tell Roderigo to murder Cassio. Roderigo was out of tunewith his friend. He had given Iago quantities of jewels for Desdemonawithout effect; Desdemona had seen none of them, for Iago was a thief. Iago smoothed him with a lie, and when Cassio was leaving Bianca'shouse, Roderigo wounded him, and was wounded in return. Cassio shouted,and Lodovico and a friend came running up. Cassio pointed out Roderigoas his assailant, and Iago, hoping to rid himself of an inconvenientfriend, called him “Villain! ” and stabbed him, but not to death. At the Castle, Desdemona was in a sad mood. She told Emilia that shemust leave her; her husband wished it. “Dismiss me! ” exclaimed Emilia. “It was his bidding, said Desdemona; we must not displease him now. ”She sang a song which a girl had sung whose lover had been base toher--a song of a maiden crying by that tree whose boughs droop as thoughit weeps, and she went to bed and slept. She woke with her husband's wild eyes upon her. “Have you prayedto-night? ” he asked; and he told this blameless and sweet woman to askGod's pardon for any sin she might have on her conscience. “I would notkill thy soul,” he said. He told her that Cassio had confessed, but she knew Cassio had nought toconfess that concerned her. She said that Cassio could not say anythingthat would damage her. Othello said his mouth was stopped. Then Desdemona wept, but with violent words, in spite of all herpleading, Othello pressed upon her throat and mortally hurt her. Then with boding heart came Emilia, and besought entrance at the door,and Othello unlocked it, and a voice came from the bed saying, “Aguiltless death I die. ”“Who did it? ” cried Emilia; and the voice said, “Nobody--I myself. Farewell! ”“'Twas I that killed her,” said Othello. He poured out his evidence by that sad bed to the people who camerunning in, Iago among them; but when he spoke of the handkerchief,Emilia told the truth. And Othello knew. “Are there no stones in heaven but thunderbolts? ” heexclaimed, and ran at Iago, who gave Emilia her death-blow and fled. But they brought him back, and the death that came to him later on was arelief from torture. They would have taken Othello back to Venice to try him there, but heescaped them on his sword. “A word or two before you go,” he said to theVenetians in the chamber. “Speak of me as I was--no better, no worse. Say I cast away the pearl of pearls, and wept with these hard eyes; andsay that, when in Aleppo years ago I saw a Turk beating a Venetian, Itook him by the throat and smote him thus. ”With his own hand he stabbed himself to the heart; and ere he died hislips touched the face of Desdemona with despairing love. THE TAMING OF THE SHREWThere lived in Padua a gentleman named Baptista, who had two fairdaughters. The eldest, Katharine, was so very cross and ill-tempered,and unmannerly, that no one ever dreamed of marrying her, while hersister, Bianca, was so sweet and pretty, and pleasant-spoken, that morethan one suitor asked her father for her hand. But Baptista said theelder daughter must marry first. So Bianca's suitors decided among themselves to try and get some one tomarry Katharine--and then the father could at least be got to listen totheir suit for Bianca. A gentleman from Verona, named Petruchio, was the one they thoughtof, and, half in jest, they asked him if he would marry Katharine, thedisagreeable scold. Much to their surprise he said yes, that was justthe sort of wife for him, and if Katharine were handsome and rich, hehimself would undertake soon to make her good-tempered. Petruchio began by asking Baptista's permission to pay court to hisgentle daughter Katharine--and Baptista was obliged to own that shewas anything but gentle. And just then her music master rushed in,complaining that the naughty girl had broken her lute over his head,because he told her she was not playing correctly. “Never mind,” said Petruchio, “I love her better than ever, and long tohave some chat with her.

”When Katharine came, he said, “Good-morrow, Kate--for that, I hear, isyour name. ”“You've only heard half,” said Katharine, rudely. “Oh, no,” said Petruchio, “they call you plain Kate, and bonny Kate, andsometimes Kate the shrew, and so, hearing your mildness praised in everytown, and your beauty too, I ask you for my wife. ”“Your wife! ” cried Kate. “Never! ” She said some extremely disagreeablethings to him, and, I am sorry to say, ended by boxing his ears. “If you do that again, I'll cuff you,” he said quietly; and stillprotested, with many compliments, that he would marry none but her. When Baptista came back, he asked at once--“How speed you with my daughter? ”“How should I speed but well,” replied Petruchio--“how, but well? ”“How now, daughter Katharine? ” the father went on. “I don't think,” said Katharine, angrily, “you are acting a father'spart in wishing me to marry this mad-cap ruffian. ”“Ah! ” said Petruchio, “you and all the world would talk amiss of her. You should see how kind she is to me when we are alone. In short, I willgo off to Venice to buy fine things for our wedding--for--kiss me, Kate! we will be married on Sunday. ”With that, Katharine flounced out of the room by one door in a violenttemper, and he, laughing, went out by the other. But whether she fell inlove with Petruchio, or whether she was only glad to meet a man who wasnot afraid of her, or whether she was flattered that, in spite of herrough words and spiteful usage, he still desired her for his wife--shedid indeed marry him on Sunday, as he had sworn she should. To vex and humble Katharine's naughty, proud spirit, he was late at thewedding, and when he came, came wearing such shabby clothes that she wasashamed to be seen with him. His servant was dressed in the same shabbyway, and the horses they rode were the sport of everyone they passed. And, after the marriage, when should have been the wedding breakfast,Petruchio carried his wife away, not allowing her to eat ordrink--saying that she was his now, and he could do as he liked withher. And his manner was so violent, and he behaved all through his wedding inso mad and dreadful a manner, that Katharine trembled and went with him. He mounted her on a stumbling, lean, old horse, and they journeyed byrough muddy ways to Petruchio's house, he scolding and snarling all theway. She was terribly tired when she reached her new home, but Petruchio wasdetermined that she should neither eat nor sleep that night, for he hadmade up his mind to teach his bad-tempered wife a lesson she would neverforget. So he welcomed her kindly to his house, but when supper was servedhe found fault with everything--the meat was burnt, he said, andill-served, and he loved her far too much to let her eat anything butthe best. At last Katharine, tired out with her journey, went supperlessto bed. Then her husband, still telling her how he loved her, and howanxious he was that she should sleep well, pulled her bed to pieces,throwing the pillows and bedclothes on the floor, so that she could notgo to bed at all, and still kept growling and scolding at the servantsso that Kate might see how unbeautiful a thing ill-temper was. The next day, too, Katharine's food was all found fault with, and caughtaway before she could touch a mouthful, and she was sick and giddy forwant of sleep. Then she said to one of the servants--“I pray thee go and get me some repast. I care not what. ”“What say you to a neat's foot? ” said the servant. Katharine said “Yes,” eagerly; but the servant, who was in his master'ssecret, said he feared it was not good for hasty-tempered people. Wouldshe like tripe? “Bring it me,” said Katharine. “I don't think that is good for hasty-tempered people,” said theservant. “What do you say to a dish of beef and mustard? ”“I love it,” said Kate. “But mustard is too hot. ”“Why, then, the beef, and let the mustard go,” cried Katharine, who wasgetting hungrier and hungrier. “No,” said the servant, “you must have the mustard, or you get no beeffrom me. ”“Then,” cried Katharine, losing patience, “let it be both, or one, oranything thou wilt. ”“Why, then,” said the servant, “the mustard without the beef! ”Then Katharine saw he was making fun of her, and boxed his ears. Just then Petruchio brought her some food--but she had scarcely begunto satisfy her hunger, before he called for the tailor to bring her newclothes, and the table was cleared, leaving her still hungry. Katharinewas pleased with the pretty new dress and cap that the tailor had madefor her, but Petruchio found fault with everything, flung the cap andgown on the floor vowing his dear wife should not wear any such foolishthings. “I will have them,” cried Katharine. “All gentlewomen wear such caps asthese--”“When you are gentle you shall have one too,” he answered, “and nottill then. ” When he had driven away the tailor with angry words--butprivately asking his friend to see him paid--Petruchio said--“Come, Kate, let's go to your father's, shabby as we are, for as thesun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanesthabit. It is about seven o'clock now. We shall easily get there bydinner-time. ”“It's nearly two,” said Kate, but civilly enough, for she had grown tosee that she could not bully her husband, as she had done her father andher sister; “it's nearly two, and it will be supper-time before we getthere. ”“It shall be seven,” said Petruchio, obstinately, “before I start. Why,whatever I say or do, or think, you do nothing but contradict. I won'tgo to-day, and before I do go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is. ”At last they started for her father's house. “Look at the moon,” said he. “It's the sun,” said Katharine, and indeed it was. “I say it is the moon. Contradicting again! It shall be sun or moon, orwhatever I choose, or I won't take you to your father's. ”Then Katharine gave in, once and for all. “What you will have it named,” she said, “it is, and so it shall be so for Katharine. ” And so it was,for from that moment Katharine felt that she had met her master, andnever again showed her naughty tempers to him, or anyone else. So they journeyed on to Baptista's house, and arriving there, they foundall folks keeping Bianca's wedding feast, and that of another newlymarried couple, Hortensio and his wife. They were made welcome, and satdown to the feast, and all was merry, save that Hortensio's wife, seeingKatharine subdued to her husband, thought she could safely say manydisagreeable things, that in the old days, when Katharine was free andfroward, she would not have dared to say. But Katharine answered withsuch spirit and such moderation, that she turned the laugh against thenew bride. After dinner, when the ladies had retired, Baptista joined in a laughagainst Petruchio, saying “Now in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fearyou have got the veriest shrew of all. ”“You are wrong,” said Petruchio, “let me prove it to you. Each of usshall send a message to his wife, desiring her to come to him, and theone whose wife comes most readily shall win a wager which we will agreeon. ”The others said yes readily enough, for each thought his own wife themost dutiful, and each thought he was quite sure to win the wager. They proposed a wager of twenty crowns. “Twenty crowns,” said Petruchio, “I'll venture so much on my hawk orhound, but twenty times as much upon my wife. ”“A hundred then,” cried Lucentio, Bianca's husband. “Content,” cried the others. Then Lucentio sent a message to the fair Bianca bidding her to come tohim. And Baptista said he was certain his daughter would come. But theservant coming back, said--“Sir, my mistress is busy, and she cannot come. ”'“There's an answer for you,” said Petruchio. “You may think yourself fortunate if your wife does not send you aworse. ”“I hope, better,” Petruchio answered. Then Hortensio said--“Go and entreat my wife to come to me at once. ”“Oh--if you entreat her,” said Petruchio. “I am afraid,” answered Hortensio, sharply, “do what you can, yours willnot be entreated. ”But now the servant came in, and said--“She says you are playing some jest, she will not come. ”“Better and better,” cried Petruchio; “now go to your mistress and say Icommand her to come to me. ”They all began to laugh, saying they knew what her answer would be, andthat she would not come. Then suddenly Baptista cried--“Here comes Katharine! ” And sure enough--there she was. “What do you wish, sir? ” she asked her husband. “Where are your sister and Hortensio's wife? ”“Talking by the parlor fire. ”“Fetch them here. ”When she was gone to fetch them, Lucentio said--“Here is a wonder! ”“I wonder what it means,” said Hortensio. “It means peace,” said Petruchio, “and love, and quiet life. ”“Well,” said Baptista, “you have won the wager, and I will addanother twenty thousand crowns to her dowry--another dowry for anotherdaughter--for she is as changed as if she were someone else. ”So Petruchio won his wager, and had in Katharine always a loving wifeand true, and now he had broken her proud and angry spirit he loved herwell, and there was nothing ever but love between those two. And so theylived happy ever afterwards. MEASURE FOR MEASUREMore centuries ago than I care to say, the people of Vienna weregoverned too mildly. The reason was that the reigning Duke Vicentio wasexcessively good-natured, and disliked to see offenders made unhappy. The consequence was that the number of ill-behaved persons in Viennawas enough to make the Duke shake his head in sorrow when his chiefsecretary showed him it at the end of a list. He decided, therefore,that wrongdoers must be punished. But popularity was dear to him. Heknew that, if he were suddenly strict after being lax, he would causepeople to call him a tyrant. For this reason he told his Privy Councilthat he must go to Poland on important business of state. “I have chosenAngelo to rule in my absence,” said he. Now this Angelo, although he appeared to be noble, was really a meanman. He had promised to marry a girl called Mariana, and now would havenothing to say to her, because her dowry had been lost. So poor Marianalived forlornly, waiting every day for the footstep of her stingy lover,and loving him still. Having appointed Angelo his deputy, the Duke went to a friar calledThomas and asked him for a friar's dress and instruction in the art ofgiving religious counsel, for he did not intend to go to Poland, but tostay at home and see how Angelo governed. Angelo had not been a day in office when he condemned to death a youngman named Claudio for an act of rash selfishness which nowadays wouldonly be punished by severe reproof. Claudio had a queer friend called Lucio, and Lucio saw a chance offreedom for Claudio if Claudio's beautiful sister Isabella would pleadwith Angelo. Isabella was at that time living in a nunnery. Nobody had won her heart,and she thought she would like to become a sister, or nun. Meanwhile Claudio did not lack an advocate. An ancient lord, Escalus, was for leniency. “Let us cut a little, butnot kill,” he said. “This gentleman had a most noble father. ”Angelo was unmoved. “If twelve men find me guilty, I ask no more mercythan is in the law. ”Angelo then ordered the Provost to see that Claudio was executed at ninethe next morning. After the issue of this order Angelo was told that the sister of thecondemned man desired to see him. “Admit her,” said Angelo. On entering with Lucio, the beautiful girl said, “I am a woeful suitorto your Honor. ”“Well? ” said Angelo. She colored at his chill monosyllable and the ascending red increasedthe beauty of her face. “I have a brother who is condemned to die,” shecontinued. “Condemn the fault, I pray you, and spare my brother. ”“Every fault,” said Angelo, “is condemned before it is committed. Afault cannot suffer. Justice would be void if the committer of a faultwent free. ”She would have left the court if Lucio had not whispered to her, “Youare too cold; you could not speak more tamely if you wanted a pin. ”So Isabella attacked Angelo again, and when he said, “I will not pardonhim,” she was not discouraged, and when he said, “He's sentenced; 'tistoo late,” she returned to the assault. But all her fighting was withreasons, and with reasons she could not prevail over the Deputy. She told him that nothing becomes power like mercy. She told him thathumanity receives and requires mercy from Heaven, that it was good tohave gigantic strength, and had to use it like a giant. She told himthat lightning rives the oak and spares the myrtle. She bade him lookfor fault in his own breast, and if he found one, to refrain from makingit an argument against her brother's life. Angelo found a fault in his breast at that moment. He loved Isabella'sbeauty, and was tempted to do for her beauty what he would not do forthe love of man. He appeared to relent, for he said, “Come to me to-morrow before noon. ”She had, at any rate, succeeded in prolonging her brother's life for afew hours. 'In her absence Angelo's conscience rebuked him for trifling with hisjudicial duty. When Isabella called on him the second time, he said, “Your brothercannot live. ”Isabella was painfully astonished, but all she said was, “Even so. Heaven keep your Honor. ”But as she turned to go, Angelo felt that his duty and honor were slightin comparison with the loss of her. “Give me your love,” he said, “and Claudio shall be freed. ”“Before I would marry you, he should die if he had twenty heads to layupon the block,” said Isabella, for she saw then that he was not thejust man he pretended to be. So she went to her brother in prison, to inform him that he must die. At first he was boastful, and promised to hug the darkness of death. But when he clearly understood that his sister could buy his life bymarrying Angelo, he felt his life more valuable than her happiness, andhe exclaimed, “Sweet sister, let me live. ”“O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! ” she cried. At this moment the Duke came forward, in the habit of a friar, torequest some speech with Isabella. He called himself Friar Lodowick. The Duke then told her that Angelo was affianced to Mariana, whoselove-story he related. He then asked her to consider this plan. LetMariana, in the dress of Isabella, go closely veiled to Angelo, and say,in a voice resembling Isabella's, that if Claudio were spared she wouldmarry him. Let her take the ring from Angelo's little finger, that itmight be afterwards proved that his visitor was Mariana. Isabella had, of course, a great respect for friars, who are as nearlylike nuns as men can be. She agreed, therefore, to the Duke's plan. Theywere to meet again at the moated grange, Mariana's house. In the street the Duke saw Lucio, who, seeing a man dressed like afriar, called out, “What news of the Duke, friar? ” “I have none,” saidthe Duke. Lucio then told the Duke some stories about Angelo. Then he told oneabout the Duke. The Duke contradicted him. Lucio was provoked, andcalled the Duke “a shallow, ignorant fool,” though he pretended to lovehim. “The Duke shall know you better if I live to report you,” said theDuke, grimly. Then he asked Escalus, whom he saw in the street, what hethought of his ducal master. Escalus, who imagined he was speaking to afriar, replied, “The Duke is a very temperate gentleman, who prefers tosee another merry to being merry himself. ”The Duke then proceeded to call on Mariana. Isabella arrived immediately afterwards, and the Duke introduced thetwo girls to one another, both of whom thought he was a friar. Theywent into a chamber apart from him to discuss the saving of Claudio, andwhile they talked in low and earnest tones, the Duke looked out of thewindow and saw the broken sheds and flower-beds black with moss, whichbetrayed Mariana's indifference to her country dwelling. Some womenwould have beautified their garden: not she. She was for the town; sheneglected the joys of the country. He was sure that Angelo would notmake her unhappier. “We are agreed, father,” said Isabella, as she returned with Mariana. So Angelo was deceived by the girl whom he had dismissed from his love,and put on her finger a ring he wore, in which was set a milky stonewhich flashed in the light with secret colors. Hearing of her success, the Duke went next day to the prison preparedto learn that an order had arrived for Claudio's release. It had not,however, but a letter was banded to the Provost while he waited. Hisamazement was great when the Provost read aloud these words, “Whatsoeveryou may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of theclock. Let me have his head sent me by five. ”But the Duke said to the Provost, “You must show the Deputy anotherhead,” and he held out a letter and a signet. “Here,” he said, “are thehand and seal of the Duke. He is to return, I tell you, and Angelo knowsit not. Give Angelo another head. ”The Provost thought, “This friar speaks with power. I know the Duke'ssignet and I know his hand. ”He said at length, “A man died in prison this morning, a pirate of theage of Claudio, with a beard of his color. I will show his head. ”The pirate's head was duly shown to Angelo, who was deceived by itsresemblance to Claudio's. The Duke's return was so popular that the citizens removed the citygates from their hinges to assist his entry into Vienna. Angelo andEscalus duly presented themselves, and were profusely praised for theirconduct of affairs in the Duke's absence. It was, therefore, the more unpleasant for Angelo when Isabella,passionately angered by his treachery, knelt before the Duke, and criedfor justice. When her story was told, the Duke cried, “To prison with her for aslanderer of our right hand! But stay, who persuaded you to come here? ”“Friar Lodowick,” said she. “Who knows him? ” inquired the Duke. “I do, my lord,” replied Lucio. “I beat him because he spake againstyour Grace. ”A friar called Peter here said, “Friar Lodowick is a holy man. ”Isabella was removed by an officer, and Mariana came forward. She tookoff her veil, and said to Angelo, “This is the face you once swore wasworth looking on. ”Bravely he faced her as she put out her hand and said, “This is the handwhich wears the ring you thought to give another. ”“I know the woman,” said Angelo. “Once there was talk of marriagebetween us, but I found her frivolous. ”Mariana here burst out that they were affianced by the strongest vows. Angelo replied by asking the Duke to insist on the production of FriarLodowick. “He shall appear,” promised the Duke, and bade Escalus examine themissing witness thoroughly while he was elsewhere. Presently the Duke re-appeared in the character of Friar Lodowick, andaccompanied by Isabella and the Provost. He was not so much examined asabused and threatened by Escalus. Lucio asked him to deny, if he dared,that he called the Duke a fool and a coward, and had had his nose pulledfor his impudence. “To prison with him! ” shouted Escalus, but as hands were laid upon him,the Duke pulled off his friar's hood, and was a Duke before them all. “Now,” he said to Angelo, “if you have any impudence that can yet serveyou, work it for all it's worth. ”“Immediate sentence and death is all I beg,” was the reply. “Were you affianced to Mariana? ” asked the Duke. “I was,” said Angelo. “Then marry her instantly,” said his master. “Marry them,” he said toFriar Peter, “and return with them here. ”“Come hither, Isabel,” said the Duke, in tender tones.

“Your friar isnow your Prince, and grieves he was too late to save your brother;” butwell the roguish Duke knew he had saved him. “O pardon me,” she cried, “that I employed my Sovereign in my trouble. ”“You are pardoned,” he said, gaily. At that moment Angelo and his wife re-entered. “And now, Angelo,” saidthe Duke, gravely, “we condemn thee to the block on which Claudio laidhis head! ”“O my most gracious lord,” cried Mariana, “mock me not! ”“You shall buy a better husband,” said the Duke. “O my dear lord,” said she, “I crave no better man. ”Isabella nobly added her prayer to Mariana's, but the Duke feignedinflexibility. “Provost,” he said, “how came it that Claudio as executed at an unusualhour? ”Afraid to confess the lie he had imposed upon Angelo, the Provost said,“I had a private message. ”“You are discharged from your office,” said the Duke. The Provost thendeparted. Angelo said, “I am sorry to have caused such sorrow. I preferdeath to mercy. ” Soon there was a motion in the crowd. The Provostre-appeared with Claudio. Like a big child the Provost said, “Isaved this man; he is like Claudio. ” The Duke was amused, and said toIsabella, “I pardon him because he is like your brother. He is like mybrother, too, if you, dear Isabel, will be mine. ”She was his with a smile, and the Duke forgave Angelo, and promoted theProvost. Lucio he condemned to marry a stout woman with a bitter tongue. TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONAOnly one of them was really a gentleman, as you will discover later. Their names were Valentine and Proteus. They were friends, and livedat Verona, a town in northern Italy. Valentine was happy in his namebecause it was that of the patron saint of lovers; it is hard for aValentine to be fickle or mean. Proteus was unhappy in his name, becauseit was that of a famous shape-changer, and therefore it encouraged himto be a lover at one time and a traitor at another. One day, Valentine told his friend that he was going to Milan. “I'mnot in love like you,” said he, “and therefore I don't want to stay athome. ”Proteus was in love with a beautiful yellow-haired girl called Julia,who was rich, and had no one to order her about. He was, however, sorryto part from Valentine, and he said, “If ever you are in danger tell me,and I will pray for you. ” Valentine then went to Milan with a servantcalled Speed, and at Milan he fell in love with the Duke of Milan'sdaughter, Silvia. When Proteus and Valentine parted Julia had not acknowledged that sheloved Proteus. Indeed, she had actually torn up one of his letters inthe presence of her maid, Lucetta. Lucetta, however, was no simpleton,for when she saw the pieces she said to herself, “All she wants is to beannoyed by another letter. ” Indeed, no sooner had Lucetta left her alonethan Julia repented of her tearing, and placed between her dress and herheart the torn piece of paper on which Proteus had signed his name. Soby tearing a letter written by Proteus she discovered that she lovedhim. Then, like a brave, sweet girl, she wrote to Proteus, “Be patient,and you shall marry me. ”Delighted with these words Proteus walked about, flourishing Julia'sletter and talking to himself. “What have you got there? ” asked his father, Antonio. “A letter from Valentine,” fibbed Proteus. “Let me read it,” said Antonio. “There is no news,” said deceitful Proteus; “he only says that he isvery happy, and the Duke of Milan is kind to him, and that he wishes Iwere with him. ”This fib had the effect of making Antonio think that his son should goto Milan and enjoy the favors in which Valentine basked. “You must goto-morrow,” he decreed. Proteus was dismayed. “Give me time to get myoutfit ready. ” He was met with the promise, “What you need shall be sentafter you. ”It grieved Julia to part from her lover before their engagement was twodays' old. She gave him a ring, and said, “Keep this for my sake,” andhe gave her a ring, and they kissed like two who intend to be true tilldeath. Then Proteus departed for Milan. Meanwhile Valentine was amusing Silvia, whose grey eyes, laughing at himunder auburn hair, had drowned him in love. One day she told him thatshe wanted to write a pretty letter to a gentleman whom she thought wellof, but had no time: would he write it? Very much did Valentine dislikewriting that letter, but he did write it, and gave it to her coldly. “Take it back,” she said; “you did it unwillingly. ”“Madam,” he said, “it was difficult to write such a letter for you. ”“Take it back,” she commanded; “you did not write tenderly enough. ”Valentine was left with the letter, and condemned to write another;but his servant Speed saw that, in effect, the Lady Silvia had allowedValentine to write for her a love-letter to Valentine's own self. “Thejoke,” he said, “is as invisible as a weather-cock on a steeple. ” Hemeant that it was very plain; and he went on to say exactly what it was:“If master will write her love-letters, he must answer them. ”On the arrival of Proteus, he was introduced by Valentine to Silvia andafterwards, when they were alone, Valentine asked Proteus how his lovefor Julia was prospering. “Why,” said Proteus, “you used to get wearied when I spoke of her. ”“Aye,” confessed Valentine, “but it's different now. I can eat and drinkall day with nothing but love on my plate and love in my cup. ”“You idolize Silvia,” said Proteus. “She is divine,” said Valentine. “Come, come! ” remonstrated Proteus. “Well, if she's not divine,” said Valentine, “she is the queen of allwomen on earth. ”“Except Julia,” said Proteus. “Dear boy,” said Valentine, “Julia is not excepted; but I will grantthat she alone is worthy to bear my lady's train. ”“Your bragging astounds me,” said Proteus. But he had seen Silvia, and he felt suddenly that the yellow-hairedJulia was black in comparison. He became in thought a villain withoutdelay, and said to himself what he had never said before--“I to myselfam dearer than my friend. ”It would have been convenient for Valentine if Proteus had changed, bythe power of the god whose name he bore, the shape of his body at theevil moment when he despised Julia in admiring Silvia. But his body didnot change; his smile was still affectionate, and Valentine confided tohim the great secret that Silvia had now promised to run away with him. “In the pocket of this cloak,” said Valentine, “I have a silken ropeladder, with hooks which will clasp the window-bar of her room. ”Proteus knew the reason why Silvia and her lover were bent on flight. The Duke intended her to wed Sir Thurio, a gentlemanly noodle for whomshe did not care a straw. Proteus thought that if he could get rid of Valentine he might makeSilvia fond of him, especially if the Duke insisted on her enduringSir Thurio's tiresome chatter. He therefore went to the Duke, and said,“Duty before friendship! It grieves me to thwart my friend Valentine,but your Grace should know that he intends to-night to elope with yourGrace's daughter. ” He begged the Duke not to tell Valentine the giverof this information, and the Duke assured him that his name would not bedivulged. Early that evening the Duke summoned Valentine, who came to him wearinga large cloak with a bulging pocket. “You know,” said the Duke, “my desire to marry my daughter to SirThurio? ”“I do,” replied Valentine. “He is virtuous and generous, as befits a manso honored in your Grace's thoughts. ”“Nevertheless she dislikes him,” said the Duke. “She is a peevish,proud, disobedient girl, and I should be sorry to leave her a penny. Iintend, therefore, to marry again. ”Valentine bowed. “I hardly know how the young people of to-day make love,” continued theDuke, “and I thought that you would be just the man to teach me how towin the lady of my choice. ”“Jewels have been known to plead rather well,” said Valentine. “I have tried them,” said the Duke. “The habit of liking the giver may grow if your Grace gives her somemore. ”“The chief difficulty,” pursued the Duke, “is this. The lady is promisedto a young gentleman, and it is hard to have a word with her. She is, infact, locked up. ”“Then your Grace should propose an elopement,” said Valentine. “Try arope ladder. ”“But how should I carry it? ” asked the Duke. “A rope ladder is light,” said Valentine; “You can carry it in a cloak. ”“Like yours? ”“Yes, your Grace. ”“Then yours will do. Kindly lend it to me. ”Valentine had talked himself into a trap. He could not refuse to lendhis cloak, and when the Duke had donned it, his Grace drew from thepocket a sealed missive addressed to Silvia. He coolly opened it, andread these words: “Silvia, you shall be free to-night. ”“Indeed,” he said, “and here's the rope ladder. Prettily contrived, butnot perfectly. I give you, sir, a day to leave my dominions. If you arein Milan by this time to-morrow, you die. ”Poor Valentine was saddened to the core. “Unless I look on Silvia in theday,” he said, “there is no day for me to look upon. ”Before he went he took farewell of Proteus, who proved a hypocrite ofthe first order. “Hope is a lover's staff,” said Valentine's betrayer;“walk hence with that. ”After leaving Milan, Valentine and his servant wandered into a forestnear Mantua where the great poet Virgil lived. In the forest, however,the poets (if any) were brigands, who bade the travelers stand. Theyobeyed, and Valentine made so good an impression upon his captors thatthey offered him his life on condition that he became their captain. “I accept,” said Valentine, “provided you release my servant, and arenot violent to women or the poor. ”The reply was worthy of Virgil, and Valentine became a brigand chief. We return now to Julia, who found Verona too dull to live in sinceProteus had gone. She begged her maid Lucetta to devise a way by whichshe could see him. “Better wait for him to return,” said Lucetta, andshe talked so sensibly that Julia saw it was idle to hope that Lucettawould bear the blame of any rash and interesting adventure. Juliatherefore said that she intended to go to Milan and dressed like a page. “You must cut off your hair then,” said Lucetta, who thought that atthis announcement Julia would immediately abandon her scheme. “I shall knot it up,” was the disappointing rejoinder. Lucetta then tried to make the scheme seem foolish to Julia, but Juliahad made up her mind and was not to be put off by ridicule; and when hertoilet was completed, she looked as comely a page as one could wish tosee. Julia assumed the male name Sebastian, and arrived in Milan in time tohear music being performed outside the Duke's palace. “They are serenading the Lady Silvia,” said a man to her. Suddenly she heard a voice lifted in song, and she knew that voice. Itwas the voice of Proteus. But what was he singing? “Who is Silvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her That she might admired be. ”Julia tried not to hear the rest, but these two lines somehow thunderedinto her mind-- “Then to Silvia let us sing; She excels each mortal thing. ”Then Proteus thought Silvia excelled Julia; and, since he sang sobeautifully for all the world to hear, it seemed that he was not onlyfalse to Julia, but had forgotten her. Yet Julia still loved him. Sheeven went to him, and asked to be his page, and Proteus engaged her. One day, he handed to her the ring which she had given him, and said,“Sebastian, take that to the Lady Silvia, and say that I should like thepicture of her she promised me. ”Silvia had promised the picture, but she disliked Proteus. She wasobliged to talk to him because he was high in the favor of her father,who thought he pleaded with her on behalf of Sir Thurio. Silvia hadlearned from Valentine that Proteus was pledged to a sweetheart inVerona; and when he said tender things to her, she felt that he wasdisloyal in friendship as well as love. Julia bore the ring to Silvia, but Silvia said, “I will not wrong thewoman who gave it him by wearing it. ”“She thanks you,” said Julia. “You know her, then? ” said Silvia, and Julia spoke so tenderly ofherself that Silvia wished that Sebastian would marry Julia. Silvia gave Julia her portrait for Proteus, who would have received itthe worse for extra touches on the nose and eyes if Julia had not madeup her mind that she was as pretty as Silvia. Soon there was an uproar in the palace. Silvia had fled. The Duke was certain that her intention was to join the exiledValentine, and he was not wrong. Without delay he started in pursuit, with Sir Thurio, Proteus, and someservants. The members of the pursuing party got separated, and Proteus and Julia(in her page's dress) were by themselves when they saw Silvia, who hadbeen taken prisoner by outlaws and was now being led to their Captain. Proteus rescued her, and then said, “I have saved you from death; giveme one kind look. ”“O misery, to be helped by you! ” cried Silvia. “I would rather be alion's breakfast. ”Julia was silent, but cheerful. Proteus was so much annoyed with Silviathat he threatened her, and seized her by the waist. “O heaven! ” cried Silvia. At that instant there was a noise of crackling branches. Valentine camecrashing through the Mantuan forest to the rescue of his beloved. Juliafeared he would slay Proteus, and hurried to help her false lover. Buthe struck no blow, he only said, “Proteus, I am sorry I must never trustyou more. ”Thereat Proteus felt his guilt, and fell on his knees, saying, “Forgiveme! I grieve! I suffer! ”“Then you are my friend once more,” said the generous Valentine. “IfSilvia, that is lost to me, will look on you with favor, I promise thatI will stand aside and bless you both. ”These words were terrible to Julia, and she swooned. Valentine revivedher, and said, “What was the matter, boy? ”“I remembered,” fibbed Julia, “that I was charged to give a ring to theLady Silvia, and that I did not. ”“Well, give it to me,” said Proteus. She handed him a ring, but it was the ring that Proteus gave to Juliabefore he left Verona. Proteus looked at her hand, and crimsoned to the roots of his hair. “I changed my shape when you changed your mind,” said she. “But I love you again,” said he. Just then outlaws entered, bringing two prizes--the Duke and Sir Thurio. “Forbear! ” cried Valentine, sternly. “The Duke is sacred. ”Sir Thurio exclaimed, “There's Silvia; she's mine! ”“Touch her, and you die! ” said Valentine. “I should be a fool to risk anything for her,” said Sir Thurio. “Then you are base,” said the Duke. “Valentine, you are a brave man. Your banishment is over. I recall you. You may marry Silvia. You deserveher. ”“I thank your Grace,” said Valentine, deeply moved, “and yet must askyou one more boon. ”“I grant it,” said the Duke. “Pardon these men, your Grace, and give them employment. They are betterthan their calling. ”“I pardon them and you,” said the Duke. “Their work henceforth shall befor wages. ”“What think you of this page, your Grace? ” asked Valentine, indicatingJulia. The Duke glanced at her, and said, “I think the boy has grace in him. ”“More grace than boy, say I,” laughed Valentine, and the only punishmentwhich Proteus had to bear for his treacheries against love andfriendship was the recital in his presence of the adventures ofJulia-Sebastian of Verona. ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELLIn the year thirteen hundred and something, the Countess of Rousillonwas unhappy in her palace near the Pyrenees. She had lost her husband,and the King of France had summoned her son Bertram to Paris, hundredsof miles away. Bertram was a pretty youth with curling hair, finely arched eyebrows,and eyes as keen as a hawk's. He was as proud as ignorance could makehim, and would lie with a face like truth itself to gain a selfish end. But a pretty youth is a pretty youth, and Helena was in love with him. Helena was the daughter of a great doctor who had died in the serviceof the Count of Rousillon. Her sole fortune consisted in a few of herfather's prescriptions. When Bertram had gone, Helena's forlorn look was noticed by theCountess, who told her that she was exactly the same to her as herown child. Tears then gathered in Helena's eyes, for she felt that theCountess made Bertram seem like a brother whom she could never marry. The Countess guessed her secret forthwith, and Helena confessed thatBertram was to her as the sun is to the day. She hoped, however, to win this sun by earning the gratitude of the Kingof France, who suffered from a lingering illness, which made him lame. The great doctors attached to the Court despaired of curing him, butHelena had confidence in a prescription which her father had used withsuccess. Taking an affectionate leave of the Countess, she went to Paris, and wasallowed to see the King. He was very polite, but it was plain he thought her a quack. “It wouldnot become me,” he said, “to apply to a simple maiden for the reliefwhich all the learned doctors cannot give me. ”“Heaven uses weak instruments sometimes,” said Helena, and she declaredthat she would forfeit her life if she failed to make him well. “And if you succeed? ” questioned the King. “Then I will ask your Majesty to give me for a husband the man whom Ichoose! ”So earnest a young lady could not be resisted forever by a sufferingking. Helena, therefore, became the King's doctor, and in two days theroyal cripple could skip. He summoned his courtiers, and they made a glittering throng in thethrone room of his palace. Well might the country girl have beendazzled, and seen a dozen husbands worth dreaming of among the handsomeyoung noblemen before her. But her eyes only wandered till they foundBertram. Then she went up to him, and said, “I dare not say I take you,but I am yours!

” Raising her voice that the King might hear, she added,“This is the Man! ”“Bertram,” said the King, “take her; she's your wife! ”“My wife, my liege? ” said Bertram. “I beg your Majesty to permit me tochoose a wife. ”“Do you know, Bertram, what she has done for your King? ” asked themonarch, who had treated Bertram like a son. “Yes, your Majesty,” replied Bertram; “but why should I marry a girl whoowes her breeding to my father's charity? ”“You disdain her for lacking a title, but I can give her a title,” saidthe King; and as he looked at the sulky youth a thought came to him, andhe added, “Strange that you think so much of blood when you could notdistinguish your own from a beggar's if you saw them mixed together in abowl. ”“I cannot love her,” asserted Bertram; and Helena said gently, “Urgehim not, your Majesty. I am glad to have cured my King for my country'ssake. ”“My honor requires that scornful boy's obedience,” said the King. “Bertram, make up your mind to this. You marry this lady, of whom youare so unworthy, or you learn how a king can hate. Your answer? ”Bertram bowed low and said, “Your Majesty has ennobled the lady by yourinterest in her. I submit. ”“Take her by the band,” said the King, “and tell her she is yours. ”Bertram obeyed, and with little delay he was married to Helena. Fear of the King, however, could not make him a lover. Ridicule helpedto sour him. A base soldier named Parolles told him to his face thatnow he had a “kicky-wicky” his business was not to fight but to stayat home. “Kicky-wicky” was only a silly epithet for a wife, but it madeBertram feel he could not bear having a wife, and that he must go to thewar in Italy, though the King had forbidden him. Helena he ordered to take leave of the King and return to Rousillon,giving her letters for his mother and herself. He then rode off, biddingher a cold good-bye. She opened the letter addressed to herself, and read, “When you can getthe ring from my finger you can call me husband, but against that 'when'I write 'never. '”Dry-eyed had Helena been when she entered the King's presence and saidfarewell, but he was uneasy on her account, and gave her a ring fromhis own finger, saying, “If you send this to me, I shall know you are introuble, and help you. ”She did not show him Bertram's letter to his wife; it would have madehim wish to kill the truant Count; but she went back to Rousillon andhanded her mother-in-law the second letter. It was short and bitter. “Ihave run away,” it said. “If the world be broad enough, I will be alwaysfar away from her. ”“Cheer up,” said the noble widow to the deserted wife. “I wash his nameout of my blood, and you alone are my child. ”The Dowager Countess, however, was still mother enough to Bertram to laythe blame of his conduct on Parolles, whom she called “a very taintedfellow. ”Helena did not stay long at Rousillon. She clad herself as a pilgrim,and, leaving a letter for her mother-in-law, secretly set out forFlorence. On entering that city she inquired of a woman the way to the Pilgrims'House of Rest, but the woman begged “the holy pilgrim” to lodge withher. Helena found that her hostess was a widow, who had a beautiful daughternamed Diana. When Diana heard that Helena came from France, she said, “A countrymanof yours, Count Rousillon, has done worthy service for Florence. ” Butafter a time, Diana had something to tell which was not at all worthy ofHelena's husband. Bertram was making love to Diana. He did not hide thefact that he was married, but Diana heard from Parolles that his wifewas not worth caring for. The widow was anxious for Diana's sake, and Helena decided to inform herthat she was the Countess Rousillon. “He keeps asking Diana for a lock of her hair,” said the widow. Helena smiled mournfully, for her hair was as fine as Diana's and of thesame color. Then an idea struck her, and she said, “Take this purse ofgold for yourself. I will give Diana three thousand crowns if she willhelp me to carry out this plan. Let her promise to give a lock of herhair to my husband if he will give her the ring which he wears on hisfinger. It is an ancestral ring. Five Counts of Rousillon have worn it,yet he will yield it up for a lock of your daughter's hair. Let yourdaughter insist that he shall cut the lock of hair from her in a darkroom, and agree in advance that she shall not speak a single word. ”The widow listened attentively, with the purse of gold in her lap. Shesaid at last, “I consent, if Diana is willing. ”Diana was willing, and, strange to say, the prospect of cutting offa lock of hair from a silent girl in a dark room was so pleasing toBertram that he handed Diana his ring, and was told when to follow herinto the dark room. At the time appointed he came with a sharp knife,and felt a sweet face touch his as he cut off the lock of hair, and heleft the room satisfied, like a man who is filled with renown, and onhis finger was a ring which the girl in the dark room had given him. The war was nearly over, but one of its concluding chapters taughtBertram that the soldier who had been impudent enough to call Helena his“kicky-wicky” was far less courageous than a wife. Parolles was sucha boaster, and so fond of trimings to his clothes, that the Frenchofficers played him a trick to discover what he was made of. He had losthis drum, and had said that he would regain it unless he was killed inthe attempt. His attempt was a very poor one, and he was inventing thestory of a heroic failure, when he was surrounded and disarmed. “Portotartarossa,” said a French lord. “What horrible lingo is this? ” thought Parolles, who had beenblindfolded. “He's calling for the tortures,” said a French man, affecting to act asinterpreter. “What will you say without 'em? ”“As much,” replied Parolles, “as I could possibly say if you pinched melike a pasty. ” He was as good as his word. He told them how many therewere in each regiment of the Florentine army, and he refreshed them withspicy anecdotes of the officers commanding it. Bertram was present, and heard a letter read, in which Parolles toldDiana that he was a fool. “This is your devoted friend,” said a French lord. “He is a cat to me now,” said Bertram, who detested our hearthrug pets. Parolles was finally let go, but henceforth he felt like a sneak, andwas not addicted to boasting. We now return to France with Helena, who had spread a report of herdeath, which was conveyed to the Dowager Countess at Rousillon by Lafeu,a lord who wished to marry his daughter Magdalen to Bertram. The King mourned for Helena, but he approved of the marriage proposedfor Bertram, and paid a visit to Rousillon in order to see itaccomplished. “His great offense is dead,” he said. “Let Bertram approach me. ”Then Bertram, scarred in the cheek, knelt before his Sovereign, and saidthat if he had not loved Lafeu's daughter before he married Helena, hewould have prized his wife, whom he now loved when it was too late. “Love that is late offends the Great Sender,” said the King. “Forgetsweet Helena, and give a ring to Magdalen. ”Bertram immediately gave a ring to Lafeu, who said indignantly, “It'sHelena's! ”“It's not! ” said Bertram. Hereupon the King asked to look at the ring, and said, “This is the ringI gave to Helena, and bade her send to me if ever she needed help. Soyou had the cunning to get from her what could help her most. ”Bertram denied again that the ring was Helena's, but even his mothersaid it was. “You lie! ” exclaimed the King. “Seize him, guards! ” but even while theywere seizing him, Bertram wondered how the ring, which he thought Dianahad given him, came to be so like Helena's. A gentleman now entered,craving permission to deliver a petition to the King. It was a petitionsigned Diana Capilet, and it begged that the King would order Bertram tomarry her whom he had deserted after winning her love. “I'd sooner buy a son-in-law at a fair than take Bertram now,” saidLafeu. “Admit the petitioner,” said the King. Bertram found himself confronted by Diana and her mother. He deniedthat Diana had any claim on him, and spoke of her as though her life wasspent in the gutter. But she asked him what sort of gentlewoman itwas to whom he gave, as to her he gave, the ring of his ancestors nowmissing from his finger? Bertram was ready to sink into the earth, but fate had one crowninggenerosity reserved for him. Helena entered. “Do I see reality? ” asked the King. “O pardon! pardon! ” cried Bertram. She held up his ancestral ring. “Now that I have this,” said she, “willyou love me, Bertram? ”“To the end of my life,” cried he. “My eyes smell onions,” said Lafeu. Tears for Helena were twinkling inthem. The King praised Diana when he was fully informed by that not very shyyoung lady of the meaning of her conduct. For Helena's sake she hadwished to expose Bertram's meanness, not only to the King, but tohimself. His pride was now in shreds, and it is believed that he made ahusband of some sort after all. PRONOUNCING VOCABULARY OF NAMES. [Key. -- a,e,i,o,u -- as in hat, bet, it, hot, hut; â,ê,î,ô,û -- as in ate, mote, mite, mote, mute; å -- as in America, freeman, coward; ë -- as in her, fern; ü -- as in burn, furl. ] Adriana (ad-ri-â'-nå) AEgeon (ê'-ge-on) AEmilia (ê-mil'-i-å) Alcibiades (al-si-bî'-å-dêz) Aliena (â-li-ê'-nå) Angelo (an'-je-lô) Antioch (an'-ti-ok) Antiochus (an-tî'-o-kus) Antipholus (an-tif'-o-lus) Antonio (an-tô'-ni-ô) Apemantus (ap-e-man'-tus) Apollo (å-pol'-ô) Ariel (â'ri-el) Arragon (ar'-å-gon) Banquo (ban'-kwô) Baptista (bap-tis'-tå) Bassanio (bas-sa'-ni-ô) Beatrice (bê'å-tris) Bellario (bel-lâ'-ri-ô) Bellarius (bel-lâ'-ri-us) Benedick (ben'-e-dik) Benvolio (ben-vô'-li-ô) Bertram (bër'-tram) Bianca (bê-an'-kå) Borachio (bô-rach'-i-ô) Brabantio (brå-ban'chô) Burgundy (bür'-gun-di) Caliban (kal'-i-ban) Camillo (kå-mil'-ô) Capulet (kap'-û-let) Cassio (kas'-i-ô) Celia (sê'-li-å) Centaur (sen'-tawr) Cerimon (sê'-ri-mon) Cesario (se-sâ'-ri-ô) Claudio (klaw'-di-ô) Claudius (klaw'-di-us) Cordelia (kawr-dê'-li-å) Cornwall (kawrn'-wawl) Cymbeline (sim'-be-lên) Demetrius (de-mê'-tri-us) Desdemona (des-de-mô-nå) Diana (dî-an'-å) Dionyza (dî-ô-nî'-zå) Donalbain (don'-al-ban) Doricles (dor'-i-klêz) Dromio (drô'-mi-ô) Duncan (dung'-kån) Emilia (ê-mil'-i-å) Ephesus (ef'e-sus) Escalus (es'-kå-lus) Ferdinand (fër'-di-nand) Flaminius (flå-min'-i-us) Flavius (flâ'-vi-us) Fleance (flê'-ans) Florizel (flor'-i-zel) Ganymede (gan'-i-mêd) Giulio (jû'-li-ô) Goneril (gon'-e-ril) Gonzalo (gon-zah'-lô) Helena (hel'-e-nå) Helicanus (hel-i-kâ'nus) Hercules (hër'kû-lêz) Hermia (hër'mi-å) Hermione (hër-mî'-o-nê) Horatio (hô-râ'-shi-ô) Hortensio (hor-ten'-si-ô) Iachimo (yak'-i-mô) Iago (ê-ah-gô) Illyria ((il-lir'-i-å) Imogen (im'-o-jen) Jessica (jes'-i-kå) Juliet (ju'li-et) Laertes (lâ-ër'-têz) Lafeu (lah-fu') Lear (lêr) Leodovico (lê-ô-dô'-vi-kô) Leonato (lê-ô-nâ'-tô) Leontes (lê-on-têz) Luciana (lû-shi-â'nå) Lucio (lû'-shi-ô) Lucius (lû'-shi-us) Lucullus (lû-kul'-us) Lysander (lî-san'-dër) Lysimachus (lî-sim'-å-kus) Macbeth (mak-beth') Magdalen (mag'-då-len) Malcolm (mal'-kum) Malvolio (mal-vô'li-ô) Mantua (man-'tû-å) Mariana (mah-ri-â'-na) Menaphon (men'-å-fon) Mercutio (mer-kû'-shi-ô) Messina (mes-sê'-nah) Milan (mil'-ån) Miranda (mî-ran'-då) Mitylene (mit-ê-lê'-nê) Montagu (mon'-tå-gû) Montano (mon-tah'-nô) Oberon (ob'-ër-on) Olivia (ô-liv'-i-å) Ophelia (ô-fêl'-i-å or o-fêl'-yå) Orlando (awr-lan'-dô) Orsino (awr-sê'-nô) Othello (ô-thel'-ô) Parolles (pa-rol'-êz) Paulina (paw-lî'-nå) Pentapolis (pen-tap'-o-lis) Perdita (për'-di-tå) Pericles (per'-i-klêz) Petruchio (pe-trû'-chi-ô) Phoenix (fê'-niks) Pisanio (pê-sah'-ni-ô) Polixines (pô-liks'-e-nêz) Polonius (pô-lô'-ni-us) Portia (pôr'-shi-å) Proteus (prô'-te-us or prô'-tûs) Regan (rê'-gån) Roderigo (rô-der'-i-gô) Romano (rô-mah'-nô) Romeo (rô'-me-ô) Rosalind (roz'-å-lind) Rosaline (roz'-å-lin) Rousillon (ru-sê-lyawng') Sebastian (se-bas'-ti-ån) Sempronius (sem-prô'-ni-us) Simonides (si-mon'-i-dêz) Solinus (sô-lî'-nus) Sycorax (sî'-ko-raks) Syracuse (sir-å-kus) Thaisa (tha-is'-å) Thaliard (thâ'-li-ård) Thurio (thû'-ri-ô) Timon (tî'-mon) Titania (tî-tan'-i-å) Tybalt (tib'-ålt) Ursula (ur'-sû-lå) Venetian (ve-nê'-shån) Venice (ven'-is) Ventidius (ven-tid'-i-us) Verona (vâ-rô'-nå) Vicentio (vê-sen'-shi-ô)QUOTATIONS FROM SHAKESPEAREACTION. Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant More learned than their ears. Coriolanus -- III. 2. ADVERSITY. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. As You Like It -- II. 1. That, Sir, which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack, when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. King Lear -- II. 4. Ah! when the means are gone, that buy this praise, The breath is gone whereof this praise is made: Feast won--fast lost; one cloud of winter showers, These flies are couched. Timon of Athens -- II. 2. ADVICE TO A SON LEAVING HOME. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel: but, being in, Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment, Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not expressed in fancy: rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are most select and generous, chief in that. Neither a borrower, nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all. --To thine ownself be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Hamlet -- I. 3. AGE. My May of life Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf: And that which should accompany old age, As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath, Which the poor heart would feign deny, but dare not. Macbeth -- V. 3. AMBITION. Dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality, that it is but a shadow's shadow. Hamlet -- II 2. I charge thee fling away ambition; By that sin fell the angels, how can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not! Let all the ends, thou aim'st at, be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's. King Henry VIII. -- III. 2. ANGER. Anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allowed his way, Self-mettle tires him. King Henry VIII. -- I. 1. ARROGANCE. There are a sort of men, whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a willful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, “I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark! ” O! my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore are reputed wise For saying nothing, when, I am sure, If they should speak, would almost dam those ears, Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. The Merchant of Venice -- I. 1. AUTHORITY. Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? And the creature run from the cur? There thou might'st behold the great image of authority a dog's obeyed in office. King Lear -- IV. 6. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, For every pelting, petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but thunder-- Merciful heaven! Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle! --O, but man, proud man! Drest in a little brief authority -- Most ignorant of what he's most assured, His glassy essence,--like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, As make the angels weep. Measure for Measure -- II. 2. BEAUTY. The hand, that hath made you fair, hath made you good: the goodness, that is cheap in beauty, makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, should keep the body of it ever fair. Measure for Measure -- III. 1. BLESSINGS UNDERVALUED. It so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth, Whiles we enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value; then we find The virtue, that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours. Much Ado About Nothing -- IV. 1. BRAGGARTS. It will come to pass, That every braggart shall be found an ass. All's Well that Ends Well -- IV. 3. They that have the voice of lions, and the act of bares, are they not monsters? Troilus and Cressida -- III. 2. CALUMNY. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Hamlet -- III. 1. No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure 'scape; back-wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong, Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? Measure for Measure -- III. 2. CEREMONY. Ceremony Was but devised at first, to set a gloss On faint deeds, hollow welcomes. Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown; But where there is true friendship, there needs none. Timon of Athens -- I. 2. COMFORT. Men Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air, and agony with words: No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow; But no man's virtue, nor sufficiency, To be so moral, when he shall endure The like himself. Much Ado About Nothing -- V. 1. Well, every one can master a grief, but he that has it. Idem -- II. COMPARISON. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. So doth the greater glory dim the less; A substitute shines brightly as a king, Until a king be by; and then his state Empties itself, as does an inland brook Into the main of waters. Merchant of Venice -- V. 1. CONSCIENCE. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. Hamlet -- III. 1. CONTENT. 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. King Henry VI. , Part 3d - III. 1. CONTENTION. How, in one house, Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? King Lear -- II. 4. When two authorities are set up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter twixt the gap of both, and take The one by the other. Coriolanus -- III.

1. CONTENTMENT. 'Tis better to be lowly born, And range with humble livers in content, Than to be perked up in a glistering grief, And wear a golden sorrow. King Henry VIII. -- II. 3. COWARDS. Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Julius Caesar -- II. 2. CUSTOM. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat Of habit's devil, is angel yet in this: That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock, or livery, That aptly is put on: Refrain to-night: And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence: the next more easy: For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Hamlet -- III. 4. A custom More honored in the breach, then the observance. Idem -- I. 4. DEATH. Kings, and mightiest potentates, must die; For that's the end of human misery. King Henry VI. , Part 1st -- III. 2. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come, when it will come. Julius Caesar -- II. 2. The dread of something after death, Makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others we know not of. Hamlet -- III. 1. The sense of death is most in apprehension. Measure for Measure -- III. 1. By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death Will seize the doctor too. Cymbeline -- V. 5. DECEPTION. The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul, producing holy witness, Is like a villain with a smiling cheek; A goodly apple rotten at the heart; O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath! Merchant of Venice -- I. 3. DEEDS. Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes. Hamlet -- I. 2. How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, Makes deeds ill done! King John -- IV. 2. DELAY. That we would do, We should do when we would; for this would changes, And hath abatements and delays as many, As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this should is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing. Hamlet -- IV. 7. DELUSION. For love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul; It will but skin and film the ulcerous place; Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Hamlet -- III. 4. DISCRETION. Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion. Othello -- II. 3. DOUBTS AND FEARS. I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. Macbeth -- III. 4. DRUNKENNESS. Boundless intemperance. In nature is a tyranny; it hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. Measure for Measure -- I. 3. DUTY OWING TO OURSELVES AND OTHERS. Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none; be able for thine enemy Rather in power, than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key; be checked for silence, But never taxed for speech. All's Well that Ends Well -- I. 1. EQUIVOCATION. But yet I do not like but yet, it does allay The good precedence; fye upon but yet: But yet is as a gailer to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Antony and Cleopatra -- II. 5. EXCESS. A surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings. Midsummer Night's Dream -- II. 3. Every inordinate cup is unblessed, and the ingredient is a devil. Othello -- II. 3. FALSEHOOD. Falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, Three things that women hold in hate. Two Gentlemen of Verona -- III. 2. FEAR. Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds Where it should guard. King Henry VI. , Part 2d -- V. 2. Fear, and be slain; no worse can come, to fight: And fight and die, is death destroying death; Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath. King Richard II. -- III. 2. FEASTS. Small cheer, and great welcome, makes a merry feast. Comedy of Errors -- III. 1. FILIAL INGRATITUDE. Ingratitude! Thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous, when thou showest thee in a child, Than the sea-monster. King Lear -- I. 4. How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child Idem -- I. 4. FORETHOUGHT. Determine on some course, More than a wild exposure to each cause That starts i' the way before thee. Coriolanus -- IV. 1. FORTITUDE. Yield not thy neck To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance. King Henry VI. , Part 3d -- III. 3. FORTUNE. When fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threatening eye. King John -- III. 4. GREATNESS. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost; And,--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is ripening,--nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. King Henry VIII. -- III. 2. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. Twelfth Night -- II. 5. HAPPINESS. O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes. As You Like It -- V. 2. HONESTY. An honest man is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. King Henry VI. , Part 2d -- V. 1. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. Hamlet -- II. 2. HYPOCRISY. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. Love's Labor Lost -- IV. 3. One may smile, and smile, and be a villain. Hamlet -- I. 5. INNOCENCE. The trust I have is in mine innocence, And therefore am I bold and resolute. Troilus and Cressida -- IV. 4. INSINUATIONS. The shrug, the hum, or ha; these petty brands, That calumny doth use;-- For calumny will sear Virtue itself:--these shrugs, these bums, and ha's, When you have said, she's goodly, come between, Ere you can say she's honest. Winter's Tale -- II. 1. JEALOUSY. Trifles, light as air, Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ. Othello -- III. 3. O beware of jealousy: It is the green-eyed monster, which does mock The meat it feeds on. Idem. JESTS. A jest's prosperity lies in the ear of him that hears it. Love's Labor Lost -- V. 2. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. Romeo and Juliet -- II. 2. JUDGMENT. Heaven is above all; there sits a Judge, That no king can corrupt. King Henry VIII, -- III. 1. LIFE. Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Macbeth -- V. 5. We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. The Tempest -- IV. 1. LOVE. A murd'rous, guilt shows not itself more soon, Than love that would seem bid: love's night is noon. Twelfth Night -- III. 2. Sweet love, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. King Richard II. -- III. 2. When love begins to sicken and decay, It useth an enforced ceremony. Julius Caesar -- II. 2. The course of true-love never did run smooth. Midsummer Night's Dream -- I. 1. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. Idem. She never told her love,-- But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, Feed on her damask check: she pined in thought And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? Twelfth Night -- II. 4. But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit. The Merchant of Venice -- II. 6. MAN. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! in form, and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! Hamlet -- II. 2. MERCY. The quality of mercy is not strained: it droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; It blesses him that gives, and him that takes: 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown: His scepter shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptered sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's, When mercy seasons justice. Consider this,-- That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. Merchant of Venice -- IV. 1. MERIT. Who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honorable Without the stamp of merit! Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. Merchant of Venice -- II. 9. MODESTY. It is the witness still of excellency, To put a strange face on his own perfection. Much Ado About Nothing -- II. 3. MORAL CONQUEST. Brave conquerors! for so you are, That war against your own affections, And the huge army of the world's desires. Love's Labor's Lost -- I.

1. MURDER. The great King of kings Hath in the table of his law commanded, That thou shalt do no murder. Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his band, To hurl upon their heads thatbreak his law. King Richard III. -- I. 4. Blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth. King Richard II. -- I. 1. MUSIC. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. Merchant of Venice -- V. 1. NAMES. What's in a name? that, which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet. Romeo and Juliet -- II. 2. Good name, in man, and woman, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing. 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands: But he, that filches from me my good name, Robs me of that, which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed. Othello -- III. 3. NATURE. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. NEWS, GOOD AND BAD. Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message An host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell Themselves, when they be felt. Antony and Cleopatra -- II. 5. OFFICE. 'Tis the curse of service; Preferment goes by letter, and affection, Not by the old gradation, where each second Stood heir to the first. Othello -- I. 1. OPPORTUNITY. Who seeks, and will not take when offered, Shall never find it more. Antony and Cleopatra -- II. 7. There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows, and in miseries: And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures. Julius Caesar -- IV. 3. OPPRESSION. Press not a falling man too far; 'tis virtue: His faults lie open to the laws; let them, Not you, correct them. King Henry VIII. -- III. 2. PAST AND FUTURE. O thoughts of men accurst! Past, and to come, seem best; things present, worst. King Henry IV. , Part 2d -- I. 3. PATIENCE. How poor are they, that have not patience! -- What wound did ever heal, but by degrees? Othello -- II. 3. PEACE. A peace is of the nature of a conquest; For then both parties nobly are subdued, And neither party loser. King Henry IV. , Part 2d -- IV. 2. I will use the olive with my sword: Make war breed peace; make peace stint war; make each Prescribe to other, as each other's leech. Timon of Athens -- V. 5. I know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. King Henry VIII. -- III. 2. PENITENCE. Who by repentance is not satisfied, Is nor of heaven, nor earth; for these are pleased; By penitence the Eternal's wrath appeased. Two Gentlemen of Verona -- V. 4. PLAYERS. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts. As You Like It -- II. 7. There be players, that I have seen play,-- and heard others praise, and that highly,-- not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Hamlet -- III. 2. POMP. Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must. King Henry V. Part 3d -- V. 2. PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree: such a bare is madness, the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple. The Merchant of Venice -- I. 2. PRINCES AND TITLES. Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honor for an inward toil; And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares: So that, between their titles, and low name, There's nothing differs but the outward fame. King Richard III. -- I. 4. QUARRELS. In a false quarrel these is no true valor. Much Ado About Nothing -- V. 1. Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; And he but naked, though locked up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. King Henry VI. , Part 2d -- III. 2. RAGE. Men in rage strike those that wish them best. Othello -- II. 3. REPENTANCE. Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, Which after-hours give leisure to repent. King Richard III. -- IV. 4. REPUTATION. The purest treasure mortal times afford, Is--spotless reputation; that away, Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest I-- a bold spirit in a loyal breast. King Richard II. -- I. 1. RETRIBUTION. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to scourge us. King Lear -- V. S. If these men have defeated the law, and outrun native punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to fly from God. King Henry V. -- IV. 1. SCARS. A sear nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good livery of honor. All's Well that Ends Well -- IV. 6. To such as boasting show their scars, A mock is due. Troilus and Cressida -- IV. 5. SELF-CONQUEST. Better conquest never can'st thou make, Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts Against those giddy loose suggestions. King John -- III. 1. SELF-EXERTION. Men at some time are masters of their fates; The fault is not in our stars, But in ourselves. Julius Caesar -- I. 2. SELF-RELIANCE. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull. All's Well that Ends Well -- I. 1. SILENCE. Out of this silence, yet I picked a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much, as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Midsummer Night's Dream -- V. 1. The silence often of pure innocence Persuades, when speaking fails. Winter's Tale -- II. 2. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Much Ado About Nothing -- II. 1. SLANDER. Slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world; kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. Cymbeline -- III. 4. SLEEP. The innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast. Macbeth -- II. 2. SUICIDE. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine, That cravens my weak hand. Cymbeline -- III. 4. TEMPERANCE. Though I look old, yet am I strong and lusty: For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo The means of weakness and debility: Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, Frosty, but kindly. As You Like It -- II. 3. THEORY AND PRACTICE. There was never yet philosopher, That could endure the tooth-ache patiently; However, they have writ the style of the gods, And made a pish at chance and sufferance. Much Ado About Nothing -- V. 1. TREACHERY. Though those, that are betrayed, Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. Cymbeline -- III. 4. VALOR. The better part of valor is--discretion. King Henry IV. , Part 1st -- V. 4. When Valor preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with. Antony and Cleopatra -- III. 2. What valor were it, when a cur doth grin For one to thrust his band between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? King Henry VI. , Part 1st -- I. 4. WAR. Take care How you awake the sleeping sword of war: We charge you in the name of God, take heed. King Henry IV. , Part 1st -- I. 2. WELCOME. Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. WINE. Good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used. Othello -- II. 3. O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee --devil! . . . O, that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away their brains! that we should with joy, revel, pleasure, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! Othello -- II. 3. WOMAN. A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loathed than an effeminate man. Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. WORDS. Words without thoughts never to heaven go. Hamlet -- III. 3. Few words shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending. Troilus and Cressida -- III. 2. WORLDLY CARE. You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it, that do buy it with much care. Merchant of Venice -- I.

1. WORLDLY HONORS. Not a man, for being simply man, Hath any honor; but honor for those honors That are without him, as place, riches, favor, Prizes of accident as oftas merit; Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, The love that leaned on them, as slippery too, Do one pluck down another, and together Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me. Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. End of Project Gutenberg's Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare, by E. Nesbit*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE ******** This file should be named 1430-0. txt or 1430-0. zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www. gutenberg. org/1/4/3/1430/Produced by Morrie Wilson and James RoseUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed. 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***The Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's First Folio************************The Tragedie of Hamlet****************************************************************************************THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES PRODUCED AT ATIME WHEN PROOFING METHODS AND TOOLS WERE NOT WELL DEVELOPED. THEREIS AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY BE VIEWED AS EBOOK(#100) at https://www. gutenberg. org/ebooks/100*******************************************************************This is our 3rd edition of most of these plays. See the index. Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to checkthe copyright laws for your country before posting these files! ! Please take a look at the important information in this header. We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping anelectronic path open for the next readers. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver. 04. 29. 93*END*Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie of HamletExecutive Director's Notes:In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think allthe spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time havebeen corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as theyare presented herein: Barnardo. Who's there? Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfoldyour selfe Bar. Long liue the King***As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain wordsor letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . . this is theoriginal meaning of the term cliche. . . and thus, being unwillingto unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutionsthat look very odd.

. . such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,above. . . and you may wonder why they did it this way, presumingShakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . . The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at atime when they were out of "v"'s. . . possibly having used "vv" inplace of some "w"'s, etc. This was a common practice of the day,as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spendmore on a wider selection of characters than they had to. You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as Ihave mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have anextreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them avery high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare. My father read anassortment of these made available to him by Cambridge Universityin England for several months in a glass room constructed for thepurpose. To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available. . . in great detail. . . and determined from the various changes,that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of avariety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famousfor signing his name with several different spellings. So, please take this into account when reading the comments belowmade by our volunteer who prepared this file: you may see errorsthat are "not" errors. . . . So. . . with this caveat. . . we have NOT changed the canon errors,here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedieof Hamlet. Michael S. HartProject GutenbergExecutive Director***Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't. This was taken froma copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I cancome in ASCII to the printed text. The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and theconjoined ae have been changed to ae. I have left the spelling,punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to theprinted text. I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have puttogether a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of theGeneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unifiedspellings according to this template), typo's and expandedabbreviations as I have come across them. Everything withinbrackets [] is what I have added. So if you don't like thatyou can delete everything within the brackets if you want apurer Shakespeare. Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textualdifferences between various copies of the first folio. So there maybe differences (other than what I have mentioned above) betweenthis and other first folio editions. This is due to the printer'shabit of setting the type and running off a number of copies andthen proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and thencontinuing the printing run. The proof run wasn't thrown away butincorporated into the printed copies. This is just the way it is. The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 differentFirst Folio editions' best pages. If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuationerrors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feelfree to email me those errors. I wish to make this the bestetext possible. My email address for right now are haradda@aol. comand davidr@inconnect. com. I hope that you enjoy this. David ReedThe Tragedie of HamletActus Primus. Scoena Prima. Enter Barnardo and Francisco two Centinels. Barnardo. Who's there? Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfoldyour selfe Bar. Long liue the King Fran. Barnardo? Bar. He Fran. You come most carefully vpon your houre Bar. 'Tis now strook twelue, get thee to bed Francisco Fran. For this releefe much thankes: 'Tis bitter cold,And I am sicke at heart Barn. Haue you had quiet Guard? Fran. Not a Mouse stirring Barn. Well, goodnight. If you do meet Horatio andMarcellus, the Riuals of my Watch, bid them make hast. Enter Horatio and Marcellus. Fran. I thinke I heare them. Stand: who's there? Hor. Friends to this ground Mar. And Leige-men to the Dane Fran. Giue you good night Mar. O farwel honest Soldier, who hath relieu'd you? Fra. Barnardo ha's my place: giue you goodnight. Exit Fran. Mar. Holla Barnardo Bar. Say, what is Horatio there? Hor. A peece of him Bar. Welcome Horatio, welcome good Marcellus Mar. What, ha's this thing appear'd againe to night Bar. I haue seene nothing Mar. Horatio saies, 'tis but our Fantasie,And will not let beleefe take hold of himTouching this dreaded sight, twice seene of vs,Therefore I haue intreated him alongWith vs, to watch the minutes of this Night,That if againe this Apparition come,He may approue our eyes, and speake to it Hor. Tush, tush, 'twill not appeare Bar. Sit downe a-while,And let vs once againe assaile your eares,That are so fortified against our Story,What we two Nights haue seene Hor. Well, sit we downe,And let vs heare Barnardo speake of this Barn. Last night of all,When yond same Starre that's Westward from the PoleHad made his course t' illume that part of HeauenWhere now it burnes, Marcellus and my selfe,The Bell then beating one Mar. Peace, breake thee of:Enter the Ghost. Looke where it comes againe Barn. In the same figure, like the King that's dead Mar. Thou art a Scholler; speake to it Horatio Barn. Lookes it not like the King? Marke it Horatio Hora. Most like: It harrowes me with fear & wonder Barn. It would be spoke too Mar. Question it Horatio Hor. What art thou that vsurp'st this time of night,Together with that Faire and Warlike formeIn which the Maiesty of buried DenmarkeDid sometimes march: By Heauen I charge thee speake Mar. It is offended Barn. See, it stalkes away Hor. Stay: speake; speake: I Charge thee, speake. Exit the Ghost. Mar. 'Tis gone, and will not answer Barn. How now Horatio? You tremble & look pale:Is not this something more then Fantasie? What thinke you on't? Hor. Before my God, I might not this beleeueWithout the sensible and true auouchOf mine owne eyes Mar. Is it not like the King? Hor. As thou art to thy selfe,Such was the very Armour he had on,When th' Ambitious Norwey combatted:So frown'd he once, when in an angry parleHe smot the sledded Pollax on the Ice. 'Tis strange Mar. Thus twice before, and iust at this dead houre,With Martiall stalke, hath he gone by our Watch Hor. In what particular thought to work, I know not:But in the grosse and scope of my Opinion,This boades some strange erruption to our State Mar. Good now sit downe, & tell me he that knowesWhy this same strict and most obseruant Watch,So nightly toyles the subiect of the Land,And why such dayly Cast of Brazon CannonAnd Forraigne Mart for Implements of warre:Why such impresse of Ship-wrights, whose sore TaskeDo's not diuide the Sunday from the weeke,What might be toward, that this sweaty hastDoth make the Night ioynt-Labourer with the day:Who is't that can informe me? Hor. That can I,At least the whisper goes so: Our last King,Whose Image euen but now appear'd to vs,Was (as you know) by Fortinbras of Norway,(Thereto prick'd on by a most emulate Pride)Dar'd to the Combate.

In which, our Valiant Hamlet,(For so this side of our knowne world esteem'd him)Did slay this Fortinbras: who by a Seal'd Compact,Well ratified by Law, and Heraldrie,Did forfeite (with his life) all those his LandsWhich he stood seiz'd on, to the Conqueror:Against the which, a Moity competentWas gaged by our King: which had return'dTo the Inheritance of Fortinbras,Had he bin Vanquisher, as by the same Cou'nantAnd carriage of the Article designe,His fell to Hamlet. Now sir, young Fortinbras,Of vnimproued Mettle, hot and full,Hath in the skirts of Norway, heere and there,Shark'd vp a List of Landlesse Resolutes,For Foode and Diet, to some EnterprizeThat hath a stomacke in't: which is no other(And it doth well appeare vnto our State)But to recouer of vs by strong handAnd termes Compulsatiue, those foresaid LandsSo by his Father lost: and this (I take it)Is the maine Motiue of our Preparations,The Sourse of this our Watch, and the cheefe headOf this post-hast, and Romage in the Land. Enter Ghost againe. But soft, behold: Loe, where it comes againe:Ile crosse it, though it blast me. Stay Illusion:If thou hast any sound, or vse of Voyce,Speake to me. If there be any good thing to be done,That may to thee do ease, and grace to me; speak to me. If thou art priuy to thy Countries Fate(Which happily foreknowing may auoyd) Oh speake. Or, if thou hast vp-hoorded in thy lifeExtorted Treasure in the wombe of Earth,(For which, they say, you Spirits oft walke in death)Speake of it. Stay, and speake. Stop it Marcellus Mar. Shall I strike at it with my Partizan? Hor. Do, if it will not stand Barn. 'Tis heere Hor. 'Tis heere Mar. 'Tis gone. Exit Ghost. We do it wrong, being so MaiesticallTo offer it the shew of Violence,For it is as the Ayre, invulnerable,And our vaine blowes, malicious Mockery Barn. It was about to speake, when the Cocke crew Hor. And then it started, like a guilty thingVpon a fearfull Summons. I haue heard,The Cocke that is the Trumpet to the day,Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding ThroateAwake the God of Day: and at his warning,Whether in Sea, or Fire, in Earth, or Ayre,Th' extrauagant, and erring Spirit, hyesTo his Confine. And of the truth heerein,This present Obiect made probation Mar. It faded on the crowing of the Cocke. Some sayes, that euer 'gainst that Season comesWherein our Sauiours Birch is celebrated,The Bird of Dawning singeth all night long:And then (they say) no Spirit can walke abroad,The nights are wholsome, then no Planets strike,No Faiery talkes, nor Witch hath power to Charme:So hallow'd, and so gracious is the time Hor. So haue I heard, and do in part beleeue it. But looke, the Morne in Russet mantle clad,Walkes o're the dew of yon high Easterne Hill,Breake we our Watch vp, and by my aduiceLet vs impart what we haue seene to nightVnto yong Hamlet. For vpon my life,This Spirit dumbe to vs, will speake to him:Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it,As needfull in our Loues, fitting our Duty? Mar. Let do't I pray, and I this morning knowWhere we shall finde him most conueniently. Exeunt. Scena Secunda. Enter Claudius King of Denmarke, Gertrude the Queene, Hamlet,Polonius,Laertes, and his Sister Ophelia, Lords Attendant. King. Though yet of Hamlet our deere Brothers deathThe memory be greene: and that it vs befittedTo beare our hearts in greefe, and our whole KingdomeTo be contracted in one brow of woe:Yet so farre hath Discretion fought with Nature,That we with wisest sorrow thinke on him,Together with remembrance of our selues. Therefore our sometimes Sister, now our Queene,Th' imperiall Ioyntresse of this warlike State,Haue we, as 'twere, with a defeated ioy,With one Auspicious, and one Dropping eye,With mirth in Funerall, and with Dirge in Marriage,In equall Scale weighing Delight and DoleTaken to Wife; nor haue we heerein barr'dYour better Wisedomes, which haue freely goneWith this affaire along, for all our Thankes. Now followes, that you know young Fortinbras,Holding a weake supposall of our worth;Or thinking by our late deere Brothers death,Our State to be disioynt, and out of Frame,Colleagued with the dreame of his Aduantage;He hath not fayl'd to pester vs with Message,Importing the surrender of those LandsLost by his Father: with all Bonds of LawTo our most valiant Brother. So much for him. Enter Voltemand and Cornelius. Now for our selfe, and for this time of meetingThus much the businesse is. We haue heere writTo Norway, Vncle of young Fortinbras,Who Impotent and Bedrid, scarsely hearesOf this his Nephewes purpose, to suppresseHis further gate heerein. In that the Leuies,The Lists, and full proportions are all madeOut of his subiect: and we heere dispatchYou good Cornelius, and you Voltemand,For bearing of this greeting to old Norway,Giuing to you no further personall powerTo businesse with the King, more then the scopeOf these dilated Articles allow:Farewell, and let your hast commend your duty Volt. In that, and all things, will we shew our duty King. We doubt it nothing, heartily farewell. Exit Voltemand and Cornelius. And now Laertes, what's the newes with you? You told vs of some suite. What is't Laertes? You cannot speake of Reason to the Dane,And loose your voyce. What would'st thou beg Laertes,That shall not be my Offer, not thy Asking? The Head is not more Natiue to the Heart,The Hand more instrumentall to the Mouth,Then is the Throne of Denmarke to thy Father. What would'st thou haue Laertes? Laer. Dread my Lord,Your leaue and fauour to returne to France,From whence, though willingly I came to DenmarkeTo shew my duty in your Coronation,Yet now I must confesse, that duty done,My thoughts and wishes bend againe towards France,And bow them to your gracious leaue and pardon King. Haue you your Fathers leaue? What sayes Pollonius? Pol. He hath my Lord:I do beseech you giue him leaue to go King. Take thy faire houre Laertes, time be thine,And thy best graces spend it at thy will:But now my Cosin Hamlet, and my Sonne? Ham. A little more then kin, and lesse then kinde King. How is it that the Clouds still hang on you? Ham. Not so my Lord, I am too much i'th' Sun Queen. Good Hamlet cast thy nightly colour off,And let thine eye looke like a Friend on Denmarke. Do not for euer with thy veyled lidsSeeke for thy Noble Father in the dust;Thou know'st 'tis common, all that liues must dye,Passing through Nature, to Eternity Ham. I Madam, it is common Queen. If it be;Why seemes it so particular with thee Ham. Seemes Madam? Nay, it is: I know not Seemes:'Tis not alone my Inky Cloake (good Mother)Nor Customary suites of solemne Blacke,Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath,No, nor the fruitfull Riuer in the Eye,Nor the deiected hauiour of the Visage,Together with all Formes, Moods, shewes of Griefe,That can denote me truly. These indeed Seeme,For they are actions that a man might play:But I haue that Within, which passeth show;These, but the Trappings, and the Suites of woe King. 'Tis sweet and commendableIn your Nature Hamlet,To giue these mourning duties to your Father:But you must know, your Father lost a Father,That Father lost, lost his, and the Suruiuer boundIn filiall Obligation, for some termeTo do obsequious Sorrow. But to perseuerIn obstinate Condolement, is a courseOf impious stubbornnesse. 'Tis vnmanly greefe,It shewes a will most incorrect to Heauen,A Heart vnfortified, a Minde impatient,An Vnderstanding simple, and vnschool'd:For, what we know must be, and is as commonAs any the most vulgar thing to sence,Why should we in our peeuish OppositionTake it to heart? Fye, 'tis a fault to Heauen,A fault against the Dead, a fault to Nature,To Reason most absurd, whose common TheameIs death of Fathers, and who still hath cried,From the first Coarse, till he that dyed to day,This must be so. We pray you throw to earthThis vnpreuayling woe, and thinke of vsAs of a Father; For let the world take note,You are the most immediate to our Throne,And with no lesse Nobility of Loue,Then that which deerest Father beares his Sonne,Do I impart towards you. For your intentIn going backe to Schoole in Wittenberg,It is most retrograde to our desire:And we beseech you, bend you to remaineHeere in the cheere and comfort of our eye,Our cheefest Courtier Cosin, and our Sonne Qu. Let not thy Mother lose her Prayers Hamlet:I prythee stay with vs, go not to Wittenberg Ham. I shall in all my bestObey you Madam King. Why 'tis a louing, and a faire Reply,Be as our selfe in Denmarke. Madam come,This gentle and vnforc'd accord of HamletSits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof,No iocond health that Denmarke drinkes to day,But the great Cannon to the Clowds shall tell,And the Kings Rouce, the Heauens shall bruite againe,Respeaking earthly Thunder. Come away. Exeunt. Manet Hamlet. Ham. Oh that this too too solid Flesh, would melt,Thaw, and resolue it selfe into a Dew:Or that the Euerlasting had not fixtHis Cannon 'gainst Selfe-slaughter. O God, O God! How weary, stale, flat, and vnprofitableSeemes to me all the vses of this world? Fie on't? Oh fie, fie, 'tis an vnweeded GardenThat growes to Seed: Things rank, and grosse in NaturePossesse it meerely. That it should come to this:But two months dead: Nay, not so much; not two,So excellent a King, that was to thisHiperion to a Satyre: so louing to my Mother,That he might not beteene the windes of heauenVisit her face too roughly. Heauen and EarthMust I remember: why she would hang on him,As if encrease of Appetite had growneBy what is fed on; and yet within a month? Let me not thinke on't: Frailty, thy name is woman. A little Month, or ere those shooes were old,With which she followed my poore Fathers bodyLike Niobe, all teares. Why she, euen she. (O Heauen! A beast that wants discourse of ReasonWould haue mourn'd longer) married with mine Vnkle,My Fathers Brother: but no more like my Father,Then I to Hercules. Within a Moneth? Ere yet the salt of most vnrighteous TearesHad left the flushing of her gauled eyes,She married. O most wicked speed, to postWith such dexterity to Incestuous sheets:It is not, nor it cannot come to good. But breake my heart, for I must hold my tongue. Enter Horatio, Barnardo, and Marcellus. Hor. Haile to your Lordship Ham. I am glad to see you well:Horatio, or I do forget my selfe Hor. The same my Lord,And your poore Seruant euer Ham. Sir my good friend,Ile change that name with you:And what make you from Wittenberg Horatio? Marcellus Mar. My good Lord Ham. I am very glad to see you: good euen Sir. But what in faith make you from Wittemberge? Hor. A truant disposition, good my Lord Ham. I would not haue your Enemy say so;Nor shall you doe mine eare that violence,To make it truster of your owne reportAgainst your selfe. I know you are no Truant:But what is your affaire in Elsenour? Wee'l teach you to drinke deepe, ere you depart Hor. My Lord, I came to see your Fathers Funerall Ham. I pray thee doe not mock me (fellow Student)I thinke it was to see my Mothers Wedding Hor. Indeed my Lord, it followed hard vpon Ham. Thrift thrift Horatio: the Funerall Bakt-meatsDid coldly furnish forth the Marriage Tables;Would I had met my dearest foe in heauen,Ere I had euer seene that day Horatio. My father, me thinkes I see my father Hor. Oh where my Lord? Ham. In my minds eye (Horatio) Hor. I saw him once; he was a goodly King Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all:I shall not look vpon his like againe Hor. My Lord, I thinke I saw him yesternight Ham. Saw? Who?

Hor. My Lord, the King your Father Ham. The King my Father? Hor. Season your admiration for a whileWith an attent eare; till I may deliuerVpon the witnesse of these Gentlemen,This maruell to you Ham. For Heauens loue let me heare Hor. Two nights together, had these Gentlemen(Marcellus and Barnardo) on their WatchIn the dead wast and middle of the nightBeene thus encountred. A figure like your Father,Arm'd at all points exactly, Cap a Pe,Appeares before them, and with sollemne marchGoes slow and stately: By them thrice he walkt,By their opprest and feare-surprized eyes,Within his Truncheons length; whilst they bestil'dAlmost to Ielly with the Act of feare,Stand dumbe and speake not to him. This to meIn dreadfull secrecie impart they did,And I with them the third Night kept the Watch,Whereas they had deliuer'd both in time,Forme of the thing; each word made true and good,The Apparition comes. I knew your Father:These hands are not more like Ham. But where was this? Mar. My Lord vpon the platforme where we watcht Ham. Did you not speake to it? Hor. My Lord, I did;But answere made it none: yet once me thoughtIt lifted vp it head, and did addresseIt selfe to motion, like as it would speake:But euen then, the Morning Cocke crew lowd;And at the sound it shrunke in hast away,And vanisht from our sight Ham. Tis very strange Hor. As I doe liue my honourd Lord 'tis true;And we did thinke it writ downe in our dutyTo let you know of it Ham. Indeed, indeed Sirs; but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to Night? Both. We doe my Lord Ham. Arm'd, say you? Both. Arm'd, my Lord Ham. From top to toe? Both. My Lord, from head to foote Ham. Then saw you not his face? Hor. O yes, my Lord, he wore his Beauer vp Ham. What, lookt he frowningly? Hor. A countenance more in sorrow then in anger Ham. Pale, or red? Hor. Nay very pale Ham. And fixt his eyes vpon you? Hor. Most constantly Ham. I would I had beene there Hor. It would haue much amaz'd you Ham. Very like, very like: staid it long? Hor. While one with moderate hast might tell a hundred All. Longer, longer Hor. Not when I saw't Ham. His Beard was grisly? no Hor. It was, as I haue seene it in his life,A Sable Siluer'd Ham. Ile watch to Night; perchance 'twill wake againe Hor. I warrant you it will Ham. If it assume my noble Fathers person,Ile speake to it, though Hell it selfe should gapeAnd bid me hold my peace. I pray you all,If you haue hitherto conceald this sight;Let it bee treble in your silence still:And whatsoeuer els shall hap to night,Giue it an vnderstanding but no tongue;I will requite your loues; so fare ye well:Vpon the Platforme twixt eleuen and twelue,Ile visit you All. Our duty to your Honour. Exeunt Ham. Your loue, as mine to you: farewell. My Fathers Spirit in Armes? All is not well:I doubt some foule play: would the Night were come;Till then sit still my soule; foule deeds will rise,Though all the earth orewhelm them to mens eies. Enter. Scena TertiaEnter Laertes and Ophelia. Laer. My necessaries are imbark't; Farewell:And Sister, as the Winds giue Benefit,And Conuoy is assistant; doe not sleepe,But let me heare from you Ophel. Doe you doubt that? Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his fauours,Hold it a fashion and a toy in Bloude;A Violet in the youth of Primy Nature;Froward, not permanent; sweet not lastingThe suppliance of a minute? No more Ophel. No more but so Laer. Thinke it no more:For nature cressant does not grow alone,In thewes and Bulke: but as his Temple waxes,The inward seruice of the Minde and SouleGrowes wide withall. Perhaps he loues you now,And now no soyle nor cautell doth besmerchThe vertue of his feare: but you must feareHis greatnesse weigh'd, his will is not his owne;For hee himselfe is subiect to his Birth:Hee may not, as vnuallued persons doe,Carue for himselfe; for, on his choyce dependsThe sanctity and health of the whole State. And therefore must his choyce be circumscrib'dVnto the voyce and yeelding of that Body,Whereof he is the Head. Then if he sayes he loues you,It fits your wisedome so farre to beleeue it;As he in his peculiar Sect and forceMay giue his saying deed: which is no further,Then the maine voyce of Denmarke goes withall. Then weight what losse your Honour may sustaine,If with too credent eare you list his Songs;Or lose your Heart; or your chast Treasure openTo his vnmastred importunity. Feare it Ophelia, feare it my deare Sister,And keepe within the reare of your Affection;Out of the shot and danger of Desire. The chariest Maid is Prodigall enough,If she vnmaske her beauty to the Moone:Vertue it selfe scapes not calumnious stroakes,The Canker Galls, the Infants of the SpringToo oft before the buttons be disclos'd,And in the Morne and liquid dew of Youth,Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then, best safety lies in feare;Youth to it selfe rebels, though none else neere Ophe. I shall th' effect of this good Lesson keepe,As watchmen to my heart: but good my BrotherDoe not as some vngracious Pastors doe,Shew me the steepe and thorny way to Heauen;Whilst like a puft and recklesse LibertineHimselfe, the Primrose path of dalliance treads,And reaks not his owne reade Laer. Oh, feare me not. Enter Polonius. I stay too long; but here my Father comes:A double blessing is a double grace;Occasion smiles vpon a second leaue Polon. Yet heere Laertes? Aboord, aboord for shame,The winde sits in the shoulder of your saile,And you are staid for there: my blessing with you;And these few Precepts in thy memory,See thou Character. Giue thy thoughts no tongue,Nor any vnproportion'd thoughts his Act:Be thou familiar; but by no meanes vulgar:The friends thou hast, and their adoption tride,Grapple them to thy Soule, with hoopes of Steele:But doe not dull thy palme, with entertainmentOf each vnhatch't, vnfledg'd Comrade. BewareOf entrance to a quarrell: but being inBear't that th' opposed may beware of thee. Giue euery man thine eare; but few thy voyce:Take each mans censure; but reserue thy iudgement:Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy;But not exprest in fancie; rich, not gawdie:For the Apparell oft proclaimes the man. And they in France of the best ranck and station,Are of a most select and generous cheff in that. Neither a borrower, nor a lender be;For lone oft loses both it selfe and friend:And borrowing duls the edge of Husbandry. This aboue all; to thine owne selfe be true:And it must follow, as the Night the Day,Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my Blessing season this in thee Laer. Most humbly doe I take my leaue, my Lord Polon. The time inuites you, goe, your seruants tend Laer. Farewell Ophelia, and remember wellWhat I haue said to you Ophe. Tis in my memory lockt,And you your selfe shall keepe the key of it Laer. Farewell. Exit Laer. Polon. What ist Ophelia he hath said to you? Ophe. So please you, somthing touching the L[ord]. Hamlet Polon. Marry, well bethought:Tis told me he hath very oft of lateGiuen priuate time to you; and you your selfeHaue of your audience beene most free and bounteous. If it be so, as so tis put on me;And that in way of caution: I must tell you,You doe not vnderstand your selfe so cleerely,As it behoues my Daughter, and your Honour. What is betweene you, giue me vp the truth? Ophe. He hath my Lord of late, made many tendersOf his affection to me Polon. Affection, puh. You speake like a greene Girle,Vnsifted in such perillous Circumstance. Doe you beleeue his tenders, as you call them? Ophe. I do not know, my Lord, what I should thinke Polon. Marry Ile teach you; thinke your selfe a Baby,That you haue tane his tenders for true pay,Which are not starling. Tender your selfe more dearly;Or not to crack the winde of the poore Phrase,Roaming it thus, you'l tender me a foole Ophe. My Lord, he hath importun'd me with loue,In honourable fashion Polon. I, fashion you may call it, go too, go too Ophe. And hath giuen countenance to his speech,My Lord, with all the vowes of Heauen Polon. I, Springes to catch Woodcocks. I doe knowWhen the Bloud burnes, how Prodigall the SouleGiues the tongue vowes: these blazes, Daughter,Giuing more light then heate; extinct in both,Euen in their promise, as it is a making;You must not take for fire. For this time Daughter,Be somewhat scanter of your Maiden presence;Set your entreatments at a higher rate,Then a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,Beleeue so much in him, that he is young,And with a larger tether may he walke,Then may be giuen you. In few, Ophelia,Doe not beleeue his vowes; for they are Broakers,Not of the eye, which their Inuestments show:But meere implorators of vnholy Sutes,Breathing like sanctified and pious bonds,The better to beguile. This is for all:I would not, in plaine tearmes, from this time forth,Haue you so slander any moment leisure,As to giue words or talke with the Lord Hamlet:Looke too't, I charge you; come your wayes Ophe. I shall obey my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hamlet, Horatio, Marcellus. Ham. The Ayre bites shrewdly: is it very cold? Hor. It is a nipping and an eager ayre Ham.

What hower now? Hor. I thinke it lacks of twelue Mar. No, it is strooke Hor. Indeed I heard it not: then it drawes neere the season,Wherein the Spirit held his wont to walke. What does this meane my Lord? Ham. The King doth wake to night, and takes his rouse,Keepes wassels and the swaggering vpspring reeles,And as he dreines his draughts of Renish downe,The kettle Drum and Trumpet thus bray outThe triumph of his Pledge Horat. Is it a custome? Ham. I marry ist;And to my mind, though I am natiue heere,And to the manner borne: It is a CustomeMore honour'd in the breach, then the obseruance. Enter Ghost. Hor. Looke my Lord, it comes Ham. Angels and Ministers of Grace defend vs:Be thou a Spirit of health, or Goblin damn'd,Bring with thee ayres from Heauen, or blasts from Hell,Be thy euents wicked or charitable,Thou com'st in such a questionable shapeThat I will speake to thee. Ile call thee Hamlet,King, Father, Royall Dane: Oh, oh, answer me,Let me not burst in Ignorance; but tellWhy thy Canoniz'd bones Hearsed in death,Haue burst their cerments, why the SepulcherWherein we saw thee quietly enurn'd,Hath op'd his ponderous and Marble iawes,To cast thee vp againe? What may this meane? That thou dead Coarse againe in compleat steele,Reuisits thus the glimpses of the Moone,Making Night hidious? And we fooles of Nature,So horridly to shake our disposition,With thoughts beyond thee; reaches of our Soules,Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we doe? Ghost beckens Hamlet. Hor. It beckons you to goe away with it,As if it some impartment did desireTo you alone Mar. Looke with what courteous actionIt wafts you to a more remoued ground:But doe not goe with it Hor. No, by no meanes Ham. It will not speake: then will I follow it Hor. Doe not my Lord Ham. Why, what should be the feare? I doe not set my life at a pins fee;And for my Soule, what can it doe to that? Being a thing immortall as it selfe:It waues me forth againe; Ile follow it Hor. What if it tempt you toward the Floud my Lord? Or to the dreadfull Sonnet of the Cliffe,That beetles o're his base into the Sea,And there assumes some other horrible forme,Which might depriue your Soueraignty of Reason,And draw you into madnesse thinke of it? Ham. It wafts me still: goe on, Ile follow thee Mar. You shall not goe my Lord Ham. Hold off your hand Hor. Be rul'd, you shall not goe Ham. My fate cries out,And makes each petty Artire in this body,As hardy as the Nemian Lions nerue:Still am I cal'd? Vnhand me Gentlemen:By Heau'n, Ile make a Ghost of him that lets me:I say away, goe on, Ile follow thee. Exeunt. Ghost & Hamlet. Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination Mar. Let's follow; 'tis not fit thus to obey him Hor. Haue after, to what issue will this come? Mar. Something is rotten in the State of Denmarke Hor. Heauen will direct it Mar. Nay, let's follow him. Exeunt. Enter Ghost and Hamlet. Ham. Where wilt thou lead me? speak; Ile go no further Gho. Marke me Ham. I will Gho. My hower is almost come,When I to sulphurous and tormenting FlamesMust render vp my selfe Ham. Alas poore Ghost Gho. Pitty me not, but lend thy serious hearingTo what I shall vnfold Ham. Speake, I am bound to heare Gho. So art thou to reuenge, when thou shalt heare Ham. What? Gho. I am thy Fathers Spirit,Doom'd for a certaine terme to walke the night;And for the day confin'd to fast in Fiers,Till the foule crimes done in my dayes of NatureAre burnt and purg'd away? But that I am forbidTo tell the secrets of my Prison-House;I could a Tale vnfold, whose lightest wordWould harrow vp thy soule, freeze thy young blood,Make thy two eyes like Starres, start from their Spheres,Thy knotty and combined lockes to part,And each particular haire to stand an end,Like Quilles vpon the fretfull Porpentine:But this eternall blason must not beTo eares of flesh and bloud; list Hamlet, oh list,If thou didst euer thy deare Father loue Ham. Oh Heauen! Gho. Reuenge his foule and most vnnaturall Murther Ham. Murther? Ghost. Murther most foule, as in the best it is;But this most foule, strange, and vnnaturall Ham. Hast, hast me to know it,That with wings as swiftAs meditation, or the thoughts of Loue,May sweepe to my Reuenge Ghost. I finde thee apt,And duller should'st thou be then the fat weedeThat rots it selfe in ease, on Lethe Wharfe,Would'st thou not stirre in this. Now Hamlet heare:It's giuen out, that sleeping in mine Orchard,A Serpent stung me: so the whole eare of Denmarke,Is by a forged processe of my deathRankly abus'd: But know thou Noble youth,The Serpent that did sting thy Fathers life,Now weares his Crowne Ham. O my Propheticke soule: mine Vncle? Ghost. I that incestuous, that adulterate BeastWith witchcraft of his wits, hath Traitorous guifts. Oh wicked Wit, and Gifts, that haue the powerSo to seduce? Won to this shamefull LustThe will of my most seeming vertuous Queene:Oh Hamlet, what a falling off was there,From me, whose loue was of that dignity,That it went hand in hand, euen with the VowI made to her in Marriage; and to declineVpon a wretch, whose Naturall gifts were pooreTo those of mine. But Vertue, as it neuer wil be moued,Though Lewdnesse court it in a shape of Heauen:So Lust, though to a radiant Angell link'd,Will sate it selfe in a Celestiall bed, & prey on Garbage. But soft, me thinkes I sent the Mornings Ayre;Briefe let me be: Sleeping within mine Orchard,My custome alwayes in the afternoone;Vpon my secure hower thy Vncle stoleWith iuyce of cursed Hebenon in a Violl,And in the Porches of mine eares did poureThe leaperous Distilment; whose effectHolds such an enmity with bloud of Man,That swift as Quick-siluer, it courses throughThe naturall Gates and Allies of the body;And with a sodaine vigour it doth possetAnd curd, like Aygre droppings into Milke,The thin and wholsome blood: so did it mine;And a most instant Tetter bak'd about,Most Lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust,All my smooth Body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a Brothers hand,Of Life, of Crowne, and Queene at once dispatcht;Cut off euen in the Blossomes of my Sinne,Vnhouzzled, disappointed, vnnaneld,No reckoning made, but sent to my accountWith all my imperfections on my head;Oh horrible Oh horrible, most horrible:If thou hast nature in thee beare it not;Let not the Royall Bed of Denmarke beA Couch for Luxury and damned Incest. But howsoeuer thou pursuest this Act,Taint not thy mind; nor let thy Soule contriueAgainst thy Mother ought; leaue her to heauen,And to those Thornes that in her bosome lodge,To pricke and sting her. Fare thee well at once;The Glow-worme showes the Matine to be neere,And gins to pale his vneffectuall Fire:Adue, adue, Hamlet: remember me. Enter. Ham. Oh all you host of Heauen! Oh Earth; what els? And shall I couple Hell? Oh fie: hold my heart;And you my sinnewes, grow not instant Old;But beare me stiffely vp: Remember thee? I, thou poore Ghost, while memory holds a seateIn this distracted Globe: Remember thee? Yea, from the Table of my Memory,Ile wipe away all triuiall fond Records,All sawes of Bookes, all formes, all presures past,That youth and obseruation coppied there;And thy Commandment all alone shall liueWithin the Booke and Volume of my Braine,Vnmixt with baser matter; yes yes, by Heauen:Oh most pernicious woman! Oh Villaine, Villaine, smiling damned Villaine! My Tables, my Tables; meet it is I set it downe,That one may smile, and smile and be a Villaine;At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmarke;So Vnckle there you are: now to my word;It is; Adue, Adue, Remember me: I haue sworn't Hor. & Mar. within. My Lord, my Lord. Enter Horatio and Marcellus. Mar. Lord Hamlet Hor. Heauen secure him Mar. So be it Hor. Illo, ho, ho, my Lord Ham. Hillo, ho, ho, boy; come bird, come Mar. How ist my Noble Lord? Hor. What newes, my Lord? Ham. Oh wonderfull! Hor. Good my Lord tell it Ham. No you'l reueale it Hor. Not I, my Lord, by Heauen Mar. Nor I, my Lord Ham. How say you then, would heart of man once think it? But you'l be secret? Both. I, by Heau'n, my Lord Ham. There's nere a villaine dwelling in all DenmarkeBut hee's an arrant knaue Hor. There needs no Ghost my Lord, come from theGraue, to tell vs this Ham. Why right, you are i'th' right;And so, without more circumstance at all,I hold it fit that we shake hands, and part:You, as your busines and desires shall point you:For euery man ha's businesse and desire,Such as it is: and for mine owne poore part,Looke you, Ile goe pray Hor. These are but wild and hurling words, my Lord Ham. I'm sorry they offend you heartily:Yes faith, heartily Hor. There's no offence my Lord Ham. Yes, by Saint Patricke, but there is my Lord,And much offence too, touching this Vision heere:It is an honest Ghost, that let me tell you:For your desire to know what is betweene vs,O'remaster't as you may. And now good friends,As you are Friends, Schollers and Soldiers,Giue me one poore request Hor. What is't my Lord?

we will Ham. Neuer make known what you haue seen to night Both. My Lord, we will not Ham. Nay, but swear't Hor. Infaith my Lord, not I Mar. Nor I my Lord: in faith Ham. Vpon my sword Marcell. We haue sworne my Lord already Ham. Indeed, vpon my sword, Indeed Gho. Sweare. Ghost cries vnder the Stage. Ham. Ah ha boy, sayest thou so. Art thou there truepenny? Come one you here this fellow in the selleredgeConsent to sweare Hor. Propose the Oath my Lord Ham. Neuer to speake of this that you haue seene. Sweare by my sword Gho. Sweare Ham. Hic & vbique? Then wee'l shift for grownd,Come hither Gentlemen,And lay your hands againe vpon my sword,Neuer to speake of this that you haue heard:Sweare by my Sword Gho. Sweare Ham. Well said old Mole, can'st worke i'th' ground so fast? A worthy Pioner, once more remoue good friends Hor. Oh day and night: but this is wondrous strange Ham. And therefore as a stranger giue it welcome. There are more things in Heauen and Earth, Horatio,Then are dream't of in our Philosophy. But come,Here as before, neuer so helpe you mercy,How strange or odde so ere I beare my selfe;(As I perchance heereafter shall thinke meetTo put an Anticke disposition on:)That you at such time seeing me, neuer shallWith Armes encombred thus, or thus, head shake;Or by pronouncing of some doubtfull Phrase;As well, we know, or we could and if we would,Or if we list to speake; or there be and if there might,Or such ambiguous giuing out to note,That you know ought of me; this not to doe:So grace and mercy at your most neede helpe you:Sweare Ghost. Sweare Ham. Rest, rest perturbed Spirit: so Gentlemen,With all my loue I doe commend me to you;And what so poore a man as Hamlet is,May doe t' expresse his loue and friending to you,God willing shall not lacke: let vs goe in together,And still your fingers on your lippes I pray,The time is out of ioynt: Oh cursed spight,That euer I was borne to set it right. Nay, come let's goe together. Exeunt. Actus Secundus. Enter Polonius, and Reynoldo. Polon. Giue him his money, and these notes Reynoldo Reynol. I will my Lord Polon. You shall doe maruels wisely: good Reynoldo,Before you visite him you make inquiryOf his behauiour Reynol. My Lord, I did intend it Polon. Marry, well said;Very well said. Looke you Sir,Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris;And how, and who; what meanes; and where they keepe:What company, at what expence: and findingBy this encompassement and drift of question,That they doe know my sonne: Come you more neererThen your particular demands will touch it,Take you as 'twere some distant knowledge of him,And thus I know his father and his friends,And in part him. Doe you marke this Reynoldo? Reynol. I, very well my Lord Polon. And in part him, but you may say not well;But if't be hee I meane, hees very wilde;Addicted so and so; and there put on himWhat forgeries you please; marry, none so ranke,As may dishonour him; take heed of that:But Sir, such wanton, wild, and vsuall slips,As are Companions noted and most knowneTo youth and liberty Reynol. As gaming my Lord Polon. I, or drinking, fencing, swearing,Quarelling, drabbing. You may goe so farre Reynol. My Lord that would dishonour him Polon. Faith no, as you may season it in the charge;You must not put another scandall on him,That hee is open to Incontinencie;That's not my meaning: but breath his faults so quaintly,That they may seeme the taints of liberty;The flash and out-breake of a fiery minde,A sauagenes in vnreclaim'd bloud of generall assault Reynol. But my good Lord Polon. Wherefore should you doe this? Reynol. I my Lord, I would know that Polon. Marry Sir, heere's my drift,And I belieue it is a fetch of warrant:You laying these slight sulleyes on my Sonne,As 'twere a thing a little soil'd i'th' working:Marke you your party in conuerse; him you would sound,Hauing euer seene. In the prenominate crimes,The youth you breath of guilty, be assur'dHe closes with you in this consequence:Good sir, or so, or friend, or Gentleman. According to the Phrase and the Addition,Of man and Country Reynol. Very good my Lord Polon. And then Sir does he this? He does: what was I about to say? I was about say somthing: where did I leaue? Reynol. At closes in the consequence:At friend, or so, and Gentleman Polon. At closes in the consequence, I marry,He closes with you thus. I know the Gentleman,I saw him yesterday, or tother day;Or then or then, with such and such; and as you say,There was he gaming, there o'retooke in's Rouse,There falling out at Tennis; or perchance,I saw him enter such a house of saile;Videlicet, a Brothell, or so forth. See you now;Your bait of falshood, takes this Cape of truth;And thus doe we of wisedome and of reachWith windlesses, and with assaies of Bias,By indirections finde directions out:So by my former Lecture and aduiceShall you my Sonne; you haue me, haue you not? Reynol. My Lord I haue Polon. God buy you; fare you well Reynol. Good my Lord Polon. Obserue his inclination in your selfe Reynol. I shall my Lord Polon. And let him plye his Musicke Reynol. Well, my Lord. Enter. Enter Ophelia. Polon. Farewell:How now Ophelia, what's the matter? Ophe. Alas my Lord, I haue beene so affrighted Polon. With what, in the name of Heauen? Ophe. My Lord, as I was sowing in my Chamber,Lord Hamlet with his doublet all vnbrac'd,No hat vpon his head, his stockings foul'd,Vngartred, and downe giued to his Anckle,Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,And with a looke so pitious in purport,As if he had been loosed out of hell,To speake of horrors: he comes before me Polon. Mad for thy Loue? Ophe. My Lord, I doe not know: but truly I do feare it Polon. What said he? Ophe. He tooke me by the wrist, and held me hard;Then goes he to the length of all his arme;And with his other hand thus o're his brow,He fals to such perusall of my face,As he would draw it. Long staid he so,At last, a little shaking of mine Arme:And thrice his head thus wauing vp and downe;He rais'd a sigh, so pittious and profound,That it did seeme to shatter all his bulke,And end his being. That done, he lets me goe,And with his head ouer his shoulders turn'd,He seem'd to finde his way without his eyes,For out adores he went without their helpe;And to the last, bended their light on me Polon. Goe with me, I will goe seeke the King,This is the very extasie of Loue,Whose violent property foredoes it selfe,And leads the will to desperate Vndertakings,As oft as any passion vnder Heauen,That does afflict our Natures. I am sorrie,What haue you giuen him any hard words of late? Ophe. No my good Lord: but as you did command,I did repell his Letters, and deny'deHis accesse to me Pol. That hath made him mad. I am sorrie that with better speed and iudgementI had not quoted him. I feare he did but trifle,And meant to wracke thee: but beshrew my iealousie:It seemes it is as proper to our Age,To cast beyond our selues in our Opinions,As it is common for the yonger sortTo lacke discretion. Come, go we to the King,This must be knowne, being kept close might moueMore greefe to hide, then hate to vtter loue. Exeunt. Scena Secunda. Enter King, Queene, Rosincrane, and Guildensterne Cum alijs. King. Welcome deere Rosincrance and Guildensterne. Moreouer, that we much did long to see you,The neede we haue to vse you, did prouokeOur hastie sending. Something haue you heardOf Hamlets transformation: so I call it,Since not th' exterior, nor the inward manResembles that it was. What it should beeMore then his Fathers death, that thus hath put himSo much from th' vnderstanding of himselfe,I cannot deeme of. I intreat you both,That being of so young dayes brought vp with him:And since so Neighbour'd to his youth, and humour,That you vouchsafe your rest heere in our CourtSome little time: so by your CompaniesTo draw him on to pleasures, and to gatherSo much as from Occasions you may gleane,That open'd lies within our remedie Qu. Good Gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you,And sure I am, two men there are not liuing,To whom he more adheres. If it will please youTo shew vs so much Gentrie, and good will,As to expend your time with vs a-while,For the supply and profit of our Hope,Your Visitation shall receiue such thankesAs fits a Kings remembrance Rosin. Both your MaiestiesMight by the Soueraigne power you haue of vs,Put your dread pleasures, more into CommandThen to Entreatie Guil. We both obey,And here giue vp our selues, in the full bent,To lay our Seruices freely at your feete,To be commanded King. Thankes Rosincrance, and gentle Guildensterne Qu. Thankes Guildensterne and gentle Rosincrance. And I beseech you instantly to visitMy too much changed Sonne. Go some of ye,And bring the Gentlemen where Hamlet is Guil. Heauens make our presence and our practisesPleasant and helpfull to him. Enter. Queene. Amen. Enter Polonius. Pol. Th' Ambassadors from Norwey, my good Lord,Are ioyfully return'd King. Thou still hast bin the father of good Newes Pol. Haue I, my Lord? Assure you, my good Liege,I hold my dutie, as I hold my Soule,Both to my God, one to my gracious King:And I do thinke, or else this braine of mineHunts not the traile of Policie, so sureAs I haue vs'd to do: that I haue foundThe very cause of Hamlets Lunacie King. Oh speake of that, that I do long to heare Pol. Giue first admittance to th' Ambassadors,My Newes shall be the Newes to that great Feast King.

Thy selfe do grace to them, and bring them in. He tels me my sweet Queene, that he hath foundThe head and sourse of all your Sonnes distemper Qu. I doubt it is no other, but the maine,His Fathers death, and our o're-hasty Marriage. Enter Polonius, Voltumand, and Cornelius. King. Well, we shall sift him. Welcome good Frends:Say Voltumand, what from our Brother Norwey? Volt. Most faire returne of Greetings, and Desires. Vpon our first, he sent out to suppresseHis Nephewes Leuies, which to him appear'dTo be a preparation 'gainst the Poleak:But better look'd into, he truly foundIt was against your Highnesse, whereat greeued,That so his Sicknesse, Age, and ImpotenceWas falsely borne in hand, sends out ArrestsOn Fortinbras, which he (in breefe) obeyes,Receiues rebuke from Norwey: and in fine,Makes Vow before his Vnkle, neuer moreTo giue th' assay of Armes against your Maiestie. Whereon old Norwey, ouercome with ioy,Giues him three thousand Crownes in Annuall Fee,And his Commission to imploy those SoldiersSo leuied as before, against the Poleak:With an intreaty heerein further shewne,That it might please you to giue quiet passeThrough your Dominions, for his Enterprize,On such regards of safety and allowance,As therein are set downe King. It likes vs well:And at our more consider'd time wee'l read,Answer, and thinke vpon this Businesse. Meane time we thanke you, for your well-tooke Labour. Go to your rest, at night wee'l Feast together. Most welcome home. Exit Ambass. Pol. This businesse is very well ended. My Liege, and Madam, to expostulateWhat Maiestie should be, what Dutie is,Why day is day; night, night; and time is time,Were nothing but to waste Night, Day, and Time. Therefore, since Breuitie is the Soule of Wit,And tediousnesse, the limbes and outward flourishes,I will be breefe. Your Noble Sonne is mad:Mad call I it; for to define true Madnesse,What is't, but to be nothing else but mad. But let that go Qu. More matter, with lesse Art Pol. Madam, I sweare I vse no Art at all:That he is mad, 'tis true: 'Tis true 'tis pittie,And pittie it is true: A foolish figure,But farewell it: for I will vse no Art. Mad let vs grant him then: and now remainesThat we finde out the cause of this effect,Or rather say, the cause of this defect;For this effect defectiue, comes by cause,Thus it remaines, and the remainder thus. Perpend,I haue a daughter: haue, whil'st she is mine,Who in her Dutie and Obedience, marke,Hath giuen me this: now gather, and surmise. The Letter. To the Celestiall, and my Soules Idoll, the most beautifed Ophelia. That's an ill Phrase, a vilde Phrase, beautified is a vildePhrase: but you shall heare these in her excellent whitebosome, these Qu. Came this from Hamlet to her Pol. Good Madam stay awhile, I will be faithfull. Doubt thou, the Starres are fire,Doubt, that the Sunne doth moue:Doubt Truth to be a Lier,But neuer Doubt, I loue. O deere Ophelia, I am ill at these Numbers: I haue not Art toreckon my grones; but that I loue thee best, oh most Best beleeueit. Adieu. Thine euermore most deere Lady, whilst thisMachine is to him, Hamlet. This in Obedience hath my daughter shew'd me:And more aboue hath his soliciting,As they fell out by Time, by Meanes, and Place,All giuen to mine eare King. But how hath she receiu'd his Loue? Pol. What do you thinke of me? King. As of a man, faithfull and Honourable Pol. I wold faine proue so. But what might you think? When I had seene this hot loue on the wing,As I perceiued it, I must tell you thatBefore my Daughter told me what might youOr my deere Maiestie your Queene heere, think,If I had playd the Deske or Table-booke,Or giuen my heart a winking, mute and dumbe,Or look'd vpon this Loue, with idle sight,What might you thinke? No, I went round to worke,And (my yong Mistris) thus I did bespeakeLord Hamlet is a Prince out of thy Starre,This must not be: and then, I Precepts gaue her,That she should locke her selfe from his Resort,Admit no Messengers, receiue no Tokens:Which done, she tooke the Fruites of my Aduice,And he repulsed. A short Tale to make,Fell into a Sadnesse, then into a Fast,Thence to a Watch, thence into a Weaknesse,Thence to a Lightnesse, and by this declensionInto the Madnesse whereon now he raues,And all we waile for King. Do you thinke 'tis this? Qu. It may be very likely Pol. Hath there bene such a time, I'de fain know that,That I haue possitiuely said, 'tis so,When it prou'd otherwise? King. Not that I know Pol. Take this from this; if this be otherwise,If Circumstances leade me, I will findeWhere truth is hid, though it were hid indeedeWithin the Center King. How may we try it further? Pol. You know sometimesHe walkes foure houres together, heereIn the Lobby Qu. So he ha's indeed Pol. At such a time Ile loose my Daughter to him,Be you and I behinde an Arras then,Marke the encounter: If he loue her not,And be not from his reason falne thereon;Let me be no Assistant for a State,And keepe a Farme and Carters King. We will try it. Enter Hamlet reading on a Booke. Qu. But looke where sadly the poore wretchComes reading Pol. Away I do beseech you, both away,Ile boord him presently. Exit King & Queen. Oh giue me leaue. How does my good Lord Hamlet? Ham. Well, God-a-mercy Pol. Do you know me, my Lord? Ham. Excellent, excellent well: y'are a Fishmonger Pol. Not I my Lord Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man Pol. Honest, my Lord? Ham. I sir, to be honest as this world goes, is to beeone man pick'd out of two thousand Pol. That's very true, my Lord Ham. For if the Sun breed Magots in a dead dogge,being a good kissing Carrion-Haue you a daughter? Pol. I haue my Lord Ham. Let her not walke i'thSunne: Conception is ablessing, but not as your daughter may conceiue. Friendlooke too't Pol. How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter:yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a Fishmonger:he is farre gone, farre gone: and truly in my youth,I suffred much extreamity for loue: very neere this. Ilespeake to him againe. What do you read my Lord? Ham. Words, words, words Pol. What is the matter, my Lord? Ham. Betweene who? Pol. I meane the matter you meane, my Lord Ham. Slanders Sir: for the Satyricall slaue saies here,that old men haue gray Beards; that their faces are wrinkled;their eyes purging thicke Amber, or Plum-TreeGumme: and that they haue a plentifull locke of Wit,together with weake Hammes. All which Sir, though Imost powerfully, and potently beleeue; yet I holde itnot Honestie to haue it thus set downe: For you yourselfe Sir, should be old as I am, if like a Crab you couldgo backward Pol. Though this be madnesse,Yet there is Method in't: will you walkeOut of the ayre my Lord? Ham. Into my Graue? Pol. Indeed that is out o'th' Ayre:How pregnant (sometimes) his Replies are? A happinesse,That often Madnesse hits on,Which Reason and Sanitie could notSo prosperously be deliuer'd of. I will leaue him,And sodainely contriue the meanes of meetingBetweene him, and my daughter. My Honourable Lord, I will most humblyTake my leaue of you Ham. You cannot Sir take from me any thing, that Iwill more willingly part withall, except my life, mylife Polon. Fare you well my Lord Ham. These tedious old fooles Polon. You goe to seeke my Lord Hamlet; therehee is. Enter Rosincran and Guildensterne. Rosin. God saue you Sir Guild. Mine honour'd Lord? Rosin. My most deare Lord? Ham. My excellent good friends? How do'st thouGuildensterne? Oh, Rosincrane; good Lads: How doe yeboth? Rosin. As the indifferent Children of the earth Guild. Happy, in that we are not ouer-happy: on FortunesCap, we are not the very Button Ham. Nor the Soales of her Shoo? Rosin. Neither my Lord Ham. Then you liue about her waste, or in the middleof her fauour? Guil. Faith, her priuates, we Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? Oh, most true:she is a Strumpet.

What's the newes? Rosin. None my Lord; but that the World's grownehonest Ham. Then is Doomesday neere: But your newes isnot true. Let me question more in particular: what haueyou my good friends, deserued at the hands of Fortune,that she sends you to Prison hither? Guil. Prison, my Lord? Ham. Denmark's a Prison Rosin. Then is the World one Ham. A goodly one, in which there are many Confines,Wards, and Dungeons; Denmarke being one o'th'worst Rosin. We thinke not so my Lord Ham. Why then 'tis none to you; for there is nothingeither good or bad, but thinking makes it so: to me it isa prison Rosin. Why then your Ambition makes it one: 'tistoo narrow for your minde Ham. O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, andcount my selfe a King of infinite space; were it not thatI haue bad dreames Guil. Which dreames indeed are Ambition: for thevery substance of the Ambitious, is meerely the shadowof a Dreame Ham. A dreame it selfe is but a shadow Rosin. Truely, and I hold Ambition of so ayry andlight a quality, that it is but a shadowes shadow Ham. Then are our Beggers bodies; and our Monarchsand out-stretcht Heroes the Beggers Shadowes:shall wee to th' Court: for, by my fey I cannot reason? Both. Wee'l wait vpon you Ham. No such matter. I will not sort you with therest of my seruants: for to speake to you like an honestman: I am most dreadfully attended; but in the beatenway of friendship, What make you at Elsonower? Rosin. To visit you my Lord, no other occasion Ham. Begger that I am, I am euen poore in thankes;but I thanke you: and sure deare friends my thanksare too deare a halfepeny; were you not sent for? Is ityour owne inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come,deale iustly with me: come, come; nay speake Guil. What should we say my Lord? Ham. Why any thing. But to the purpose; you weresent for; and there is a kinde confession in your lookes;which your modesties haue not craft enough to color,I know the good King & Queene haue sent for you Rosin. To what end my Lord? Ham. That you must teach me: but let mee coniureyou by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy ofour youth, by the Obligation of our euer-preserued loue,and by what more deare, a better proposer could chargeyou withall; be euen and direct with me, whether youwere sent for or no Rosin. What say you? Ham. Nay then I haue an eye of you: if you loue mehold not off Guil. My Lord, we were sent for Ham. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipationpreuent your discouery of your secricie to the King andQueene: moult no feather, I haue of late, but whereforeI know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custome of exercise;and indeed, it goes so heauenly with my disposition;that this goodly frame the Earth, seemes to me a sterrillPromontory; this most excellent Canopy the Ayre,look you, this braue ore-hanging, this Maiesticall Roofe,fretted with golden fire: why, it appeares no other thingto mee, then a foule and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of worke is a man! how Noble inReason? how infinite in faculty? in forme and mouinghow expresse and admirable? in Action, how like an Angel? in apprehension, how like a God? the beauty of theworld, the Parragon of Animals; and yet to me, what isthis Quintessence of Dust? Man delights not me; no,nor Woman neither; though by your smiling you seemeto say so Rosin. My Lord, there was no such stuffe in mythoughts Ham. Why did you laugh, when I said, Man delightsnot me? Rosin. To thinke, my Lord, if you delight not in Man,what Lenton entertainment the Players shall receiuefrom you: wee coated them on the way, and hither arethey comming to offer you Seruice Ham. He that playes the King shall be welcome; hisMaiesty shall haue Tribute of mee: the aduenturousKnight shal vse his Foyle and Target: the Louer shallnot sigh gratis, the humorous man shall end his part inpeace: the Clowne shall make those laugh whose lungsare tickled a'th' sere: and the Lady shall say her mindefreely; or the blanke Verse shall halt for't: what Playersare they? Rosin. Euen those you were wont to take delight inthe Tragedians of the City Ham. How chances it they trauaile? their residenceboth in reputation and profit was better bothwayes Rosin. I thinke their Inhibition comes by the meanesof the late Innouation? Ham. Doe they hold the same estimation they didwhen I was in the City? Are they so follow'd? Rosin. No indeed, they are not Ham. How comes it? doe they grow rusty? Rosin. Nay, their indeauour keepes in the wontedpace; But there is Sir an ayrie of Children, littleYases, that crye out on the top of question; andare most tyrannically clap't for't: these are now thefashion, and so be-ratled the common Stages (so theycall them) that many wearing Rapiers, are affraide ofGoose-quils, and dare scarse come thither Ham. What are they Children? Who maintains 'em? How are they escorted? Will they pursue the Quality nolonger then they can sing? Will they not say afterwardsif they should grow themselues to common Players (asit is most like if their meanes are not better) their Writersdo them wrong, to make them exclaim against theirowne Succession Rosin. Faith there ha's bene much to do on both sides:and the Nation holds it no sinne, to tarre them to Controuersie. There was for a while, no mony bid for argument,vnlesse the Poet and the Player went to Cuffes inthe Question Ham. Is't possible? Guild. Oh there ha's beene much throwing about ofBraines Ham. Do the Boyes carry it away? Rosin. I that they do my Lord. Hercules & his load too Ham. It is not strange: for mine Vnckle is King ofDenmarke, and those that would make mowes at himwhile my Father liued; giue twenty, forty, an hundredDucates a peece, for his picture in Little. There is somethingin this more then Naturall, if Philosophie couldfinde it out. Flourish for the Players. Guil. There are the Players Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcom to Elsonower: yourhands, come: The appurtenance of Welcome, is Fashionand Ceremony. Let me comply with you in the Garbe,lest my extent to the Players (which I tell you must shewfairely outward) should more appeare like entertainmentthen yours. You are welcome: but my Vnckle Father,and Aunt Mother are deceiu'd Guil. In what my deere Lord? Ham. I am but mad North, North-West: when theWinde is Southerly, I know a Hawke from a Handsaw. Enter Polonius. Pol. Well be with you Gentlemen Ham. Hearke you Guildensterne, and you too: at eacheare a hearer: that great Baby you see there, is not yetout of his swathing clouts Rosin. Happily he's the second time come to them: forthey say, an old man is twice a childe Ham. I will Prophesie. Hee comes to tell me of thePlayers. Mark it, you say right Sir: for a Monday morning'twas so indeed Pol. My Lord, I haue Newes to tell you Ham. My Lord, I haue Newes to tell you. When Rossius an Actor in Rome- Pol. The Actors are come hither my Lord Ham. Buzze, buzze Pol. Vpon mine Honor Ham. Then can each Actor on his Asse- Polon. The best Actors in the world, either for Tragedie,Comedie, Historie, Pastorall:Pastoricall-Comicall-Historicall-Pastorall:Tragicall-Historicall: Tragicall-Comicall-Historicall-Pastorall:Scene indiuidible: or Poemvnlimited. Seneca cannot be too heauy, nor Plautustoo light, for the law of Writ, and the Liberty. These arethe onely men Ham. O Iephta Iudge of Israel, what a Treasure had'stthou? Pol. What a Treasure had he, my Lord? Ham. Why one faire Daughter, and no more,The which he loued passing well Pol. Still on my Daughter Ham. Am I not i'th' right old Iephta? Polon. If you call me Iephta my Lord, I haue a daughterthat I loue passing well Ham. Nay that followes not Polon. What followes then, my Lord? Ha. Why, As by lot, God wot: and then you know, Itcame to passe, as most like it was: The first rowe of thePons Chanson will shew you more. For looke where myAbridgements come. Enter foure or fiue Players. Y'are welcome Masters, welcome all. I am glad to seethee well: Welcome good Friends.

Oh my olde Friend? Thy face is valiant since I saw thee last: Com'st thou tobeard me in Denmarke? What, my yong Lady and Mistris? Byrlady your Ladiship is neerer Heauen then whenI saw you last, by the altitude of a Choppine. Pray Godyour voice like a peece of vncurrant Gold be not crack'dwithin the ring. Masters, you are all welcome: wee'l e'neto't like French Faulconers, flie at any thing we see: wee'lhaue a Speech straight. Come giue vs a tast of your quality:come, a passionate speech 1. Play. What speech, my Lord? Ham. I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it wasneuer Acted: or if it was, not aboue once, for the Play Iremember pleas'd not the Million, 'twas Cauiarie to theGenerall: but it was (as I receiu'd it, and others, whoseiudgement in such matters, cried in the top of mine) anexcellent Play; well digested in the Scoenes, set downewith as much modestie, as cunning. I remember one said,there was no Sallets in the lines, to make the matter sauory;nor no matter in the phrase, that might indite theAuthor of affectation, but cal'd it an honest method. Onecheefe Speech in it, I cheefely lou'd, 'twas Aeneas Taleto Dido, and thereabout of it especially, where he speaksof Priams slaughter. If it liue in your memory, begin atthis Line, let me see, let me see: The rugged Pyrrhus liketh'Hyrcanian Beast. It is not so: it begins with PyrrhusThe rugged Pyrrhus, he whose Sable ArmesBlacke as his purpose, did the night resembleWhen he lay couched in the Ominous Horse,Hath now this dread and blacke Complexion smear'dWith Heraldry more dismall: Head to footeNow is he to take Geulles, horridly Trick'dWith blood of Fathers, Mothers, Daughters, Sonnes,Bak'd and impasted with the parching streets,That lend a tyrannous, and damned lightTo their vilde Murthers, roasted in wrath and fire,And thus o're-sized with coagulate gore,With eyes like Carbuncles, the hellish PyrrhusOlde Grandsire Priam seekes Pol. Fore God, my Lord, well spoken, with good accent,and good discretion 1. Player. Anon he findes him,Striking too short at Greekes. His anticke Sword,Rebellious to his Arme, lyes where it fallesRepugnant to command: vnequall match,Pyrrhus at Priam driues, in Rage strikes wide:But with the whiffe and winde of his fell Sword,Th' vnnerued Father fals. Then senselesse Illium,Seeming to feele his blow, with flaming topStoopes to his Bace, and with a hideous crashTakes Prisoner Pyrrhus eare. For loe, his SwordWhich was declining on the Milkie headOf Reuerend Priam, seem'd i'th' Ayre to sticke:So as a painted Tyrant Pyrrhus stood,And like a Newtrall to his will and matter, did nothing. But as we often see against some storme,A silence in the Heauens, the Racke stand still,The bold windes speechlesse, and the Orbe belowAs hush as death: Anon the dreadfull ThunderDoth rend the Region. So after Pyrrhus pause,A rowsed Vengeance sets him new a-worke,And neuer did the Cyclops hammers fallOn Mars his Armours, forg'd for proofe Eterne,With lesse remorse then Pyrrhus bleeding swordNow falles on Priam. Out, out, thou Strumpet-Fortune, all you Gods,In generall Synod take away her power:Breake all the Spokes and Fallies from her wheele,And boule the round Naue downe the hill of Heauen,As low as to the Fiends Pol. This is too long Ham. It shall to'th Barbars, with your beard. Prytheesay on: He's for a Iigge, or a tale of Baudry, or heesleepes. Say on; come to Hecuba 1. Play. But who, O who, had seen the inobled Queen Ham. The inobled Queene? Pol. That's good: Inobled Queene is good 1. Play. Run bare-foot vp and downe,Threatning the flameWith Bisson Rheume: A clout about that head,Where late the Diadem stood, and for a RobeAbout her lanke and all ore-teamed Loines,A blanket in th' Alarum of feare caught vp. Who this had seene, with tongue in Venome steep'd,'Gainst Fortunes State, would Treason haue pronounc'd? But if the Gods themselues did see her then,When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sportIn mincing with his Sword her Husbands limbes,The instant Burst of Clamour that she made(Vnlesse things mortall moue them not at all)Would haue made milche the Burning eyes of Heauen,And passion in the Gods Pol. Looke where he ha's not turn'd his colour, andha's teares in's eyes. Pray you no more Ham. 'Tis well, Ile haue thee speake out the rest,soone. Good my Lord, will you see the Players wel bestow'd. Do ye heare, let them be well vs'd: for they arethe Abstracts and breefe Chronicles of the time. Afteryour death, you were better haue a bad Epitaph, thentheir ill report while you liued Pol. My Lord, I will vse them according to their desart Ham. Gods bodykins man, better. Vse euerie manafter his desart, and who should scape whipping: vsethem after your own Honor and Dignity. The lesse theydeserue, the more merit is in your bountie. Take themin Pol. Come sirs. Exit Polon. Ham. Follow him Friends: wee'l heare a play to morrow. Dost thou heare me old Friend, can you play themurther of Gonzago? Play. I my Lord Ham. Wee'l ha't to morrow night. You could for aneed study a speech of some dosen or sixteene lines, whichI would set downe, and insert in't? Could ye not? Play. I my Lord Ham. Very well. Follow that Lord, and looke youmock him not. My good Friends, Ile leaue you til nightyou are welcome to Elsonower? Rosin. Good my Lord. Exeunt. Manet Hamlet. Ham. I so, God buy'ye: Now I am alone. Oh what a Rogue and Pesant slaue am I? Is it not monstrous that this Player heere,But in a Fixion, in a dreame of Passion,Could force his soule so to his whole conceit,That from her working, all his visage warm'd;Teares in his eyes, distraction in's Aspect,A broken voyce, and his whole Function suitingWith Formes, to his Conceit? And all for nothing? For Hecuba? What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,That he should weepe for her? What would he doe,Had he the Motiue and the Cue for passionThat I haue? He would drowne the Stage with teares,And cleaue the generall eare with horrid speech:Make mad the guilty, and apale the free,Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed,The very faculty of Eyes and Eares. Yet I,A dull and muddy-metled Rascall, peakeLike Iohn a-dreames, vnpregnant of my cause,And can say nothing: No, not for a King,Vpon whose property, and most deere life,A damn'd defeate was made. Am I a Coward? Who calles me Villaine? breakes my pate a-crosse? Pluckes off my Beard, and blowes it in my face? Tweakes me by'th' Nose? giues me the Lye i'th' Throate,As deepe as to the Lungs? Who does me this? Ha? Why I should take it: for it cannot be,But I am Pigeon-Liuer'd, and lacke GallTo make Oppression bitter, or ere this,I should haue fatted all the Region KitesWith this Slaues Offall, bloudy: a Bawdy villaine,Remorselesse, Treacherous, Letcherous, kindles villaine! Oh Vengeance! Who? What an Asse am I? I sure, this is most braue,That I, the Sonne of the Deere murthered,Prompted to my Reuenge by Heauen, and Hell,Must (like a Whore) vnpacke my heart with words,And fall a Cursing like a very Drab. A Scullion? Fye vpon't: Foh. About my Braine. I haue heard, that guilty Creatures sitting at a Play,Haue by the very cunning of the Scoene,Bene strooke so to the soule, that presentlyThey haue proclaim'd their Malefactions. For Murther, though it haue no tongue, will speakeWith most myraculous Organ. Ile haue these Players,Play something like the murder of my Father,Before mine Vnkle. Ile obserue his lookes,Ile rent him to the quicke: If he but blenchI know my course. The Spirit that I haue seeneMay be the Diuell, and the Diuel hath powerT' assume a pleasing shape, yea and perhapsOut of my Weaknesse, and my Melancholly,As he is very potent with such Spirits,Abuses me to damne me. Ile haue groundsMore Relatiue then this: The Play's the thing,Wherein Ile catch the Conscience of the King. ExitEnter King, Queene, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosincrance,Guildenstern, andLords. King. And can you by no drift of circumstanceGet from him why he puts on this Confusion:Grating so harshly all his dayes of quietWith turbulent and dangerous Lunacy Rosin. He does confesse he feeles himselfe distracted,But from what cause he will by no meanes speake Guil. Nor do we finde him forward to be sounded,But with a crafty Madnesse keepes aloofe:When we would bring him on to some ConfessionOf his true state Qu. Did he receiue you well? Rosin. Most like a Gentleman Guild. But with much forcing of his disposition Rosin. Niggard of question, but of our demandsMost free in his reply Qu. Did you assay him to any pastime? Rosin. Madam, it so fell out, that certaine PlayersWe ore-wrought on the way: of these we told him,And there did seeme in him a kinde of ioyTo heare of it: They are about the Court,And (as I thinke) they haue already orderThis night to play before him Pol. 'Tis most true:And he beseech'd me to intreate your MaiestiesTo heare, and see the matter King. With all my heart, and it doth much content meTo heare him so inclin'd. Good Gentlemen,Giue him a further edge, and driue his purpose onTo these delights Rosin. We shall my Lord. Exeunt. King. Sweet Gertrude leaue vs too,For we haue closely sent for Hamlet hither,That he, as 'twere by accident, may thereAffront Ophelia. Her Father, and my selfe (lawful espials)Will so bestow our selues, that seeing vnseeneWe may of their encounter frankely iudge,And gather by him, as he is behaued,If't be th' affliction of his loue, or no. That thus he suffers for Qu. I shall obey you,And for your part Ophelia, I do wishThat your good Beauties be the happy causeOf Hamlets wildenesse: so shall I hope your VertuesWill bring him to his wonted way againe,To both your Honors Ophe. Madam, I wish it may Pol. Ophelia, walke you heere. Gracious so please yeWe will bestow our selues: Reade on this booke,That shew of such an exercise may colourYour lonelinesse. We are oft too blame in this,'Tis too much prou'd, that with Deuotions visage,And pious Action, we do surge o'reThe diuell himselfe King. Oh 'tis true:How smart a lash that speech doth giue my Conscience? The Harlots Cheeke beautied with plaist'ring ArtIs not more vgly to the thing that helpes it,Then is my deede, to my most painted word.

Oh heauie burthen! Pol. I heare him comming, let's withdraw my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Hamlet. Ham. To be, or not to be, that is the Question:Whether 'tis Nobler in the minde to sufferThe Slings and Arrowes of outragious Fortune,Or to take Armes against a Sea of troubles,And by opposing end them: to dye, to sleepeNo more; and by a sleepe, to say we endThe Heart-ake, and the thousand Naturall shockesThat Flesh is heyre too? 'Tis a consummationDeuoutly to be wish'd. To dye to sleepe,To sleepe, perchance to Dreame; I, there's the rub,For in that sleepe of death, what dreames may come,When we haue shuffel'd off this mortall coile,Must giue vs pawse. There's the respectThat makes Calamity of so long life:For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time,The Oppressors wrong, the poore mans Contumely,The pangs of dispriz'd Loue, the Lawes delay,The insolence of Office, and the SpurnesThat patient merit of the vnworthy takes,When he himselfe might his Quietus makeWith a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardles beareTo grunt and sweat vnder a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The vndiscouered Countrey, from whose BorneNo Traueller returnes, Puzels the will,And makes vs rather beare those illes we haue,Then flye to others that we know not of. Thus Conscience does make Cowards of vs all,And thus the Natiue hew of ResolutionIs sicklied o're, with the pale cast of Thought,And enterprizes of great pith and moment,With this regard their Currants turne away,And loose the name of Action. Soft you now,The faire Ophelia? Nimph, in thy OrizonsBe all my sinnes remembred Ophe. Good my Lord,How does your Honor for this many a day? Ham. I humbly thanke you: well, well, well Ophe. My Lord, I haue Remembrances of yours,That I haue longed long to re-deliuer. I pray you now, receiue them Ham. No, no, I neuer gaue you ought Ophe. My honor'd Lord, I know right well you did,And with them words of so sweet breath compos'd,As made the things more rich, then perfume left:Take these againe, for to the Noble mindeRich gifts wax poore, when giuers proue vnkinde. There my Lord Ham. Ha, ha: Are you honest? Ophe. My Lord Ham. Are you faire? Ophe. What meanes your Lordship? Ham. That if you be honest and faire, your Honestyshould admit no discourse to your Beautie Ophe. Could Beautie my Lord, haue better Comercethen your Honestie? Ham. I trulie: for the power of Beautie, will soonertransforme Honestie from what is, to a Bawd, then theforce of Honestie can translate Beautie into his likenesse. This was sometime a Paradox, but now the time giues itproofe. I did loue you once Ophe. Indeed my Lord, you made me beleeue so Ham. You should not haue beleeued me. For vertuecannot so innocculate our old stocke, but we shall rellishof it. I loued you not Ophe. I was the more deceiued Ham. Get thee to a Nunnerie. Why would'st thoube a breeder of Sinners? I am my selfe indifferent honest,but yet I could accuse me of such things, that it were bettermy Mother had not borne me. I am very prowd, reuengefull,Ambitious, with more offences at my becke,then I haue thoughts to put them in imagination, to giuethem shape, or time to acte them in. What should suchFellowes as I do, crawling betweene Heauen and Earth. We are arrant Knaues all, beleeue none of vs. Goe thywayes to a Nunnery. Where's your Father? Ophe. At home, my Lord Ham. Let the doores be shut vpon him, that he mayplay the Foole no way, but in's owne house. Farewell Ophe. O helpe him, you sweet Heauens Ham. If thou doest Marry, Ile giue thee this Plaguefor thy Dowrie. Be thou as chast as Ice, as pure as Snow,thou shalt not escape Calumny. Get thee to a Nunnery. Go, Farewell. Or if thou wilt needs Marry, marry a fool:for Wise men know well enough, what monsters youmake of them. To a Nunnery go, and quickly too. Farwell Ophe. O heauenly Powers, restore him Ham. I haue heard of your pratlings too wel enough. God has giuen you one pace, and you make your selfe another:you gidge, you amble, and you lispe, and nicknameGods creatures, and make your Wantonnesse, your Ignorance. Go too, Ile no more on't, it hath made me mad. I say, we will haue no more Marriages. Those that aremarried already, all but one shall liue, the rest shall keepas they are. To a Nunnery, go. Exit Hamlet. Ophe. O what a Noble minde is heere o're-throwne? The Courtiers, Soldiers, Schollers: Eye, tongue, sword,Th' expectansie and Rose of the faire State,The glasse of Fashion, and the mould of Forme,Th' obseru'd of all Obseruers, quite, quite downe. Haue I of Ladies most deiect and wretched,That suck'd the Honie of his Musicke Vowes:Now see that Noble, and most Soueraigne Reason,Like sweet Bels iangled out of tune, and harsh,That vnmatch'd Forme and Feature of blowne youth,Blasted with extasie. Oh woe is me,T'haue seene what I haue seene: see what I see. Enter King, and Polonius. King. Loue? His affections do not that way tend,Nor what he spake, though it lack'd Forme a little,Was not like Madnesse. There's something in his soule? O're which his Melancholly sits on brood,And I do doubt the hatch, and the discloseWill be some danger, which to preuentI haue in quicke determinationThus set it downe. He shall with speed to EnglandFor the demand of our neglected Tribute:Haply the Seas and Countries differentWith variable Obiects, shall expellThis something setled matter in his heart:Whereon his Braines still beating, puts him thusFrom fashion of himselfe. What thinke you on't? Pol. It shall do well. But yet do I beleeueThe Origin and Commencement of this greefeSprung from neglected loue. How now Ophelia? You neede not tell vs, what Lord Hamlet saide,We heard it all. My Lord, do as you please,But if you hold it fit after the Play,Let his Queene Mother all alone intreat himTo shew his Greefes: let her be round with him,And Ile be plac'd so, please you in the eareOf all their Conference. If she finde him not,To England send him: Or confine him whereYour wisedome best shall thinke King. It shall be so:Madnesse in great Ones, must not vnwatch'd go. Exeunt. Enter Hamlet, and two or three of the Players. Ham. Speake the Speech I pray you, as I pronounc'dit to you trippingly on the Tongue: But if you mouth it,as many of your Players do, I had as liue the Town-Cryerhad spoke my Lines: Nor do not saw the Ayre too muchyour hand thus, but vse all gently; for in the verie Torrent,Tempest, and (as I say) the Whirle-winde ofPassion, you must acquire and beget a Temperance thatmay giue it Smoothnesse. O it offends mee to the Soule,to see a robustious Pery-wig-pated Fellow, teare a Passionto tatters, to verie ragges, to split the eares of theGroundlings: who (for the most part) are capeable ofnothing, but inexplicable dumbe shewes, & noise: I couldhaue such a Fellow whipt for o're-doing Termagant: itoutHerod's Herod. Pray you auoid it Player. I warrant your Honor Ham. Be not too tame neyther: but let your owneDiscretion be your Tutor. Sute the Action to the Word,the Word to the Action, with this speciall obseruance:That you ore-stop not the modestie of Nature; for anything so ouer-done, is fro[m] the purpose of Playing, whoseend both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twerthe Mirrour vp to Nature; to shew Vertue her owneFeature, Scorne her owne Image, and the verie Age andBodie of the Time, his forme and pressure. Now, thisouer-done, or come tardie off, though it make the vnskilfulllaugh, cannot but make the Iudicious greeue; Thecensure of the which One, must in your allowance o'rewaya whole Theater of Others. Oh, there bee Playersthat I haue seene Play, and heard others praise, and thathighly (not to speake it prophanely) that neyther hauingthe accent of Christians, nor the gate of Christian, Pagan,or Norman, haue so strutted and bellowed, that I hauethought some of Natures Iouerney-men had made men,and not made them well, they imitated Humanity so abhominably Play. I hope we haue reform'd that indifferently withvs, Sir Ham. O reforme it altogether. And let those thatplay your Clownes, speake no more then is set downe forthem. For there be of them, that will themselues laugh,to set on some quantitie of barren Spectators to laughtoo, though in the meane time, some necessary Questionof the Play be then to be considered: that's Villanous, &shewes a most pittifull Ambition in the Foole that vsesit. Go make you readie. Exit Players. Enter Polonius, Rosincrance, and Guildensterne. How now my Lord,Will the King heare this peece of Worke? Pol. And the Queene too, and that presently Ham. Bid the Players make hast. Exit Polonius. Will you two helpe to hasten them? Both. We will my Lord. Exeunt. Enter Horatio. Ham. What hoa, Horatio? Hora. Heere sweet Lord, at your Seruice Ham. Horatio, thou art eene as iust a manAs ere my Conuersation coap'd withall Hora. O my deere Lord Ham. Nay, do not thinke I flatter:For what aduancement may I hope from thee,That no Reuennew hast, but thy good spiritsTo feed & cloath thee. Why shold the poor be flatter'd? No, let the Candied tongue, like absurd pompe,And crooke the pregnant Hindges of the knee,Where thrift may follow faining? Dost thou heare,Since my deere Soule was Mistris of my choyse,And could of men distinguish, her electionHath seal'd thee for her selfe. For thou hast beneAs one in suffering all, that suffers nothing.

A man that Fortunes buffets, and RewardsHath 'tane with equall Thankes. And blest are those,Whose Blood and Iudgement are so well co-mingled,That they are not a Pipe for Fortunes finger. To sound what stop she please. Giue me that man,That is not Passions Slaue, and I will weare himIn my hearts Core. I, in my Heart of heart,As I do thee. Something too much of this. There is a Play to night to before the King. One Scoene of it comes neere the CircumstanceWhich I haue told thee, of my Fathers death. I prythee, when thou see'st that Acte a-foot,Euen with the verie Comment of my SouleObserue mine Vnkle: If his occulted guilt,Do not it selfe vnkennell in one speech,It is a damned Ghost that we haue seene:And my Imaginations are as fouleAs Vulcans Stythe. Giue him needfull note,For I mine eyes will riuet to his Face:And after we will both our iudgements ioyne,To censure of his seeming Hora. Well my Lord. If he steale ought the whil'st this Play is Playing,And scape detecting, I will pay the Theft. Enter King, Queene, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosincrance,Guildensterne, andother Lords attendant with his Guard carrying Torches. DanishMarch. Sounda Flourish. Ham. They are comming to the Play: I must be idle. Get you a place King. How fares our Cosin Hamlet? Ham. Excellent Ifaith, of the Camelions dish: I eatethe Ayre promise-cramm'd, you cannot feed Capons so King. I haue nothing with this answer Hamlet, thesewords are not mine Ham. No, nor mine. Now my Lord, you plaid oncei'th' Vniuersity, you say? Polon. That I did my Lord, and was accounted a goodActor Ham. And what did you enact? Pol. I did enact Iulius Caesar, I was kill'd i'th' Capitol:Brutus kill'd me Ham. It was a bruite part of him, to kill so Capitall aCalfe there. Be the Players ready? Rosin. I my Lord, they stay vpon your patience Qu. Come hither my good Hamlet, sit by me Ha. No good Mother, here's Mettle more attractiue Pol. Oh ho, do you marke that? Ham. Ladie, shall I lye in your Lap? Ophe. No my Lord Ham. I meane, my Head vpon your Lap? Ophe. I my Lord Ham. Do you thinke I meant Country matters? Ophe. I thinke nothing, my Lord Ham. That's a faire thought to ly betweene Maids legs Ophe. What is my Lord? Ham. Nothing Ophe. You are merrie, my Lord? Ham. Who I? Ophe. I my Lord Ham. Oh God, your onely Iigge-maker: what shoulda man do, but be merrie. For looke you how cheerefullymy Mother lookes, and my Father dyed within's twoHoures Ophe. Nay, 'tis twice two moneths, my Lord Ham. So long? Nay then let the Diuel weare blacke,for Ile haue a suite of Sables. Oh Heauens! dye two monethsago, and not forgotten yet? Then there's hope, agreat mans Memorie, may out-liue his life halfe a yeare:But byrlady he must builde Churches then: or else shallhe suffer not thinking on, with the Hoby-horsse, whoseEpitaph is, For o, For o, the Hoby-horse is forgot. Hoboyes play. The dumbe shew enters. Enter a King and Queene, very louingly; the Queene embracinghim. Shekneeles, and makes shew of Protestation vnto him. He takes hervp, anddeclines his head vpon her neck. Layes him downe vpon a Bankeof Flowers. She seeing him a-sleepe, leaues him. Anon comes in a Fellow,takes off hisCrowne, kisses it, and powres poyson in the Kings eares, andExits. TheQueene returnes, findes the King dead, and makes passionateAction. ThePoysoner, with some two or three Mutes comes in againe, seemingto lamentwith her. The dead body is carried away: The Poysoner Wooes theQueene withGifts, she seemes loath and vnwilling awhile, but in the end,accepts hisloue. Exeunt. Ophe. What meanes this, my Lord? Ham. Marry this is Miching Malicho, that meanesMischeefe Ophe. Belike this shew imports the Argument of thePlay? Ham. We shall know by these Fellowes: the Playerscannot keepe counsell, they'l tell all Ophe. Will they tell vs what this shew meant? Ham. I, or any shew that you'l shew him. Bee notyou asham'd to shew, hee'l not shame to tell you what itmeanes Ophe. You are naught, you are naught, Ile marke thePlay. Enter Prologue. For vs, and for our Tragedie,Heere stooping to your Clemencie:We begge your hearing Patientlie Ham. Is this a Prologue, or the Poesie of a Ring? Ophe. 'Tis briefe my Lord Ham. As Womans loue. Enter King and his Queene. King. Full thirtie times hath Phoebus Cart gon round,Neptunes salt Wash, and Tellus Orbed ground:And thirtie dozen Moones with borrowed sheene,About the World haue times twelue thirties beene,Since loue our hearts, and Hymen did our handsVnite comutuall, in most sacred Bands Bap. So many iournies may the Sunne and MooneMake vs againe count o're, ere loue be done. But woe is me, you are so sicke of late,So farre from cheere, and from your former state,That I distrust you: yet though I distrust,Discomfort you (my Lord) it nothing must:For womens Feare and Loue, holds quantitie,In neither ought, or in extremity:Now what my loue is, proofe hath made you know,And as my Loue is siz'd, my Feare is so King. Faith I must leaue thee Loue, and shortly too:My operant Powers my Functions leaue to do:And thou shalt liue in this faire world behinde,Honour'd, belou'd, and haply, one as kinde. For Husband shalt thou- Bap. Oh confound the rest:Such Loue, must needs be Treason in my brest:In second Husband, let me be accurst,None wed the second, but who kill'd the first Ham. Wormwood, Wormwood Bapt. The instances that second Marriage moue,Are base respects of Thrift, but none of Loue. A second time, I kill my Husband dead,When second Husband kisses me in Bed King. I do beleeue you. Think what now you speak:But what we do determine, oft we breake:Purpose is but the slaue to Memorie,Of violent Birth, but poore validitie:Which now like Fruite vnripe stickes on the Tree,But fall vnshaken, when they mellow bee. Most necessary 'tis, that we forgetTo pay our selues, what to our selues is debt:What to our selues in passion we propose,The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of other Greefe or Ioy,Their owne ennactors with themselues destroy:Where Ioy most Reuels, Greefe doth most lament;Greefe ioyes, Ioy greeues on slender accident. This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strangeThat euen our Loues should with our Fortunes change. For 'tis a question left vs yet to proue,Whether Loue lead Fortune, or else Fortune Loue. The great man downe, you marke his fauourites flies,The poore aduanc'd, makes Friends of Enemies:And hitherto doth Loue on Fortune tend,For who not needs, shall neuer lacke a Frend:And who in want a hollow Friend doth try,Directly seasons him his Enemie. But orderly to end, where I begun,Our Willes and Fates do so contrary run,That our Deuices still are ouerthrowne,Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our owne. So thinke thou wilt no second Husband wed. But die thy thoughts, when thy first Lord is dead Bap. Nor Earth to giue me food, nor Heauen light,Sport and repose locke from me day and night:Each opposite that blankes the face of ioy,Meet what I would haue well, and it destroy:Both heere, and hence, pursue me lasting strife,If once a Widdow, euer I be Wife Ham. If she should breake it now King. 'Tis deepely sworne:Sweet, leaue me heere a while,My spirits grow dull, and faine I would beguileThe tedious day with sleepe Qu. Sleepe rocke thy Braine,SleepesAnd neuer come mischance betweene vs twaine. Exit Ham. Madam, how like you this Play? Qu. The Lady protests to much me thinkes Ham. Oh but shee'l keepe her word King. Haue you heard the Argument, is there no Offencein't? Ham. No, no, they do but iest, poyson in iest, no Offencei'th' world King. What do you call the Play? Ham.

The Mouse-trap: Marry how? Tropically:This Play is the Image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzagois the Dukes name, his wife Baptista: you shall seeanon: 'tis a knauish peece of worke: But what o'that? Your Maiestie, and wee that haue free soules, it touchesvs not: let the gall'd iade winch: our withers are vnrung. Enter Lucianus. This is one Lucianus nephew to the King Ophe. You are a good Chorus, my Lord Ham. I could interpret betweene you and your loue:if I could see the Puppets dallying Ophe. You are keene my Lord, you are keene Ham. It would cost you a groaning, to take off myedge Ophe. Still better and worse Ham. So you mistake Husbands. Begin Murderer. Pox, leaue thy damnable Faces, andbegin. Come, the croaking Rauen doth bellow for Reuenge Lucian. Thoughts blacke, hands apt,Drugges fit, and Time agreeing:Confederate season, else, no Creature seeing:Thou mixture ranke, of Midnight Weeds collected,With Hecats Ban, thrice blasted, thrice infected,Thy naturall Magicke, and dire propertie,On wholsome life, vsurpe immediately. Powres the poyson in his eares. Ham. He poysons him i'th' Garden for's estate: Hisname's Gonzago: the Story is extant and writ in choyceItalian. You shall see anon how the Murtherer gets theloue of Gonzago's wife Ophe. The King rises Ham. What, frighted with false fire Qu. How fares my Lord? Pol. Giue o're the Play King. Giue me some Light. Away All. Lights, Lights, Lights. Exeunt. Manet Hamlet & Horatio. Ham. Why let the strucken Deere go weepe,The Hart vngalled play:For some must watch, while some must sleepe;So runnes the world away. Would not this Sir, and a Forrest of Feathers, if the rest ofmy Fortunes turne Turke with me; with two ProuinciallRoses on my rac'd Shooes, get me a Fellowship in a crieof Players sir Hor. Halfe a share Ham. A whole one I,For thou dost know: Oh Damon deere,This Realme dismantled was of Ioue himselfe,And now reignes heere. A verie verie Paiocke Hora. You might haue Rim'd Ham. Oh good Horatio, Ile take the Ghosts word fora thousand pound. Did'st perceiue? Hora. Verie well my Lord Ham. Vpon the talke of the poysoning? Hora. I did verie well note him. Enter Rosincrance and Guildensterne. Ham. Oh, ha? Come some Musick. Come y Recorders:For if the King like not the Comedie,Why then belike he likes it not perdie. Come some Musicke Guild. Good my Lord, vouchsafe me a word with you Ham. Sir, a whole History Guild. The King, sir Ham. I sir, what of him? Guild. Is in his retyrement, maruellous distemper'd Ham. With drinke Sir? Guild. No my Lord, rather with choller Ham. Your wisedome should shew it selfe more richer,to signifie this to his Doctor: for for me to put himto his Purgation, would perhaps plundge him into farremore Choller Guild. Good my Lord put your discourse into someframe, and start not so wildely from my affayre Ham. I am tame Sir, pronounce Guild. The Queene your Mother, in most great afflictionof spirit, hath sent me to you Ham. You are welcome Guild. Nay, good my Lord, this courtesie is not ofthe right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholsomeanswer, I will doe your Mothers command'ment:if not, your pardon, and my returne shall bee the end ofmy Businesse Ham. Sir, I cannot Guild. What, my Lord? Ham. Make you a wholsome answere: my wits diseas'd. But sir, such answers as I can make, you shal command:or rather you say, my Mother: therfore no morebut to the matter. My Mother you say Rosin. Then thus she sayes: your behauior hath strokeher into amazement, and admiration Ham. Oh wonderfull Sonne, that can so astonish aMother. But is there no sequell at the heeles of this Mothersadmiration? Rosin. She desires to speake with you in her Closset,ere you go to bed Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our Mother. Haue you any further Trade with vs? Rosin. My Lord, you once did loue me Ham. So I do still, by these pickers and stealers Rosin. Good my Lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do freely barre the doore of your owne Libertie,if you deny your greefes to your Friend Ham. Sir I lacke Aduancement Rosin. How can that be, when you haue the voyce ofthe King himselfe, for your Succession in Denmarke? Ham. I, but while the grasse growes, the Prouerbe issomething musty. Enter one with a Recorder. O the Recorder. Let me see, to withdraw with you, whydo you go about to recouer the winde of mee, as if youwould driue me into a toyle? Guild. O my Lord, if my Dutie be too bold, my loueis too vnmannerly Ham. I do not well vnderstand that. Will you playvpon this Pipe? Guild. My Lord, I cannot Ham. I pray you Guild. Beleeue me, I cannot Ham. I do beseech you Guild. I know no touch of it, my Lord Ham. 'Tis as easie as lying: gouerne these Ventigeswith your finger and thumbe, giue it breath with yourmouth, and it will discourse most excellent Musicke. Looke you, these are the stoppes Guild. But these cannot I command to any vtteranceof hermony, I haue not the skill Ham. Why looke you now, how vnworthy a thingyou make of me: you would play vpon mee; you wouldseeme to know my stops: you would pluck out the heartof my Mysterie; you would sound mee from my lowestNote, to the top of my Compasse: and there is much Musicke,excellent Voice, in this little Organe, yet cannotyou make it. Why do you thinke, that I am easier to beeplaid on, then a Pipe? Call me what Instrument you will,though you can fret me, you cannot play vpon me. Godblesse you Sir. Enter Polonius. Polon. My Lord; the Queene would speak with you,and presently Ham. Do you see that Clowd? that's almost in shapelike a Camell Polon. By'th' Masse, and it's like a Camell indeed Ham. Me thinkes it is like a Weazell Polon. It is back'd like a Weazell Ham. Or like a Whale? Polon. Verie like a Whale Ham. Then will I come to my Mother, by and by:They foole me to the top of my bent. I will come by and by Polon. I will say so. Enter. Ham. By and by, is easily said. Leaue me Friends:'Tis now the verie witching time of night,When Churchyards yawne, and Hell it selfe breaths outContagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood,And do such bitter businesse as the dayWould quake to looke on. Soft now, to my Mother:Oh Heart, loose not thy Nature; let not euerThe Soule of Nero, enter this firme bosome:Let me be cruell, not vnnaturall,I will speake Daggers to her, but vse none:My Tongue and Soule in this be Hypocrites. How in my words someuer she be shent,To giue them Seales, neuer my Soule consent.

Enter King, Rosincrance, and Guildensterne. King. I like him not, nor stands it safe with vs,To let his madnesse range. Therefore prepare you,I your Commission will forthwith dispatch,And he to England shall along with you:The termes of our estate, may not endureHazard so dangerous as doth hourely growOut of his Lunacies Guild. We will our selues prouide:Most holie and Religious feare it isTo keepe those many many bodies safeThat liue and feede vpon your Maiestie Rosin. The singleAnd peculiar life is boundWith all the strength and Armour of the minde,To keepe it selfe from noyance: but much more,That Spirit, vpon whose spirit depends and restsThe liues of many, the cease of MaiestieDies not alone; but like a Gulfe doth drawWhat's neere it, with it. It is a massie wheeleFixt on the Somnet of the highest Mount. To whose huge Spoakes, ten thousand lesser thingsAre mortiz'd and adioyn'd: which when it falles,Each small annexment, pettie consequenceAttends the boystrous Ruine. Neuer aloneDid the King sighe, but with a generall grone King. Arme you, I pray you to this speedie Voyage;For we will Fetters put vpon this feare,Which now goes too free-footed Both. We will haste vs. Exeunt. Gent. Enter Polonius. Pol. My Lord, he's going to his Mothers Closset:Behinde the Arras Ile conuey my selfeTo heare the Processe. Ile warrant shee'l tax him home,And as you said, and wisely was it said,'Tis meete that some more audience then a Mother,Since Nature makes them partiall, should o're-heareThe speech of vantage. Fare you well my Liege,Ile call vpon you ere you go to bed,And tell you what I know King. Thankes deere my Lord. Oh my offence is ranke, it smels to heauen,It hath the primall eldest curse vpon't,A Brothers murther. Pray can I not,Though inclination be as sharpe as will:My stronger guilt, defeats my strong intent,And like a man to double businesse bound,I stand in pause where I shall first begin,And both neglect; what if this cursed handWere thicker then it selfe with Brothers blood,Is there not Raine enough in the sweet HeauensTo wash it white as Snow? Whereto serues mercy,But to confront the visage of Offence? And what's in Prayer, but this two-fold force,To be fore-stalled ere we come to fall,Or pardon'd being downe? Then Ile looke vp,My fault is past. But oh, what forme of PrayerCan serue my turne? Forgiue me my foule Murther:That cannot be, since I am still possestOf those effects for which I did the Murther. My Crowne, mine owne Ambition, and my Queene:May one be pardon'd, and retaine th' offence? In the corrupted currants of this world,Offences gilded hand may shoue by Iustice,And oft 'tis seene, the wicked prize it selfeBuyes out the Law; but 'tis not so aboue,There is no shuffling, there the Action lyesIn his true Nature, and we our selues compell'dEuen to the teeth and forehead of our faults,To giue in euidence. What then? What rests? Try what Repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? Oh wretched state! Oh bosome, blacke as death! Oh limed soule, that strugling to be free,Art more ingag'd: Helpe Angels, make assay:Bow stubborne knees, and heart with strings of Steele,Be soft as sinewes of the new-borne Babe,All may be well. Enter Hamlet. Ham. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying,And now Ile doo't, and so he goes to Heauen,And so am I reueng'd: that would be scann'd,A Villaine killes my Father, and for thatI his foule Sonne, do this same Villaine sendTo heauen. Oh this is hyre and Sallery, not Reuenge. He tooke my Father grossely, full of bread,With all his Crimes broad blowne, as fresh as May,And how his Audit stands, who knowes, saue Heauen:But in our circumstance and course of thought'Tis heauie with him: and am I then reueng'd,To take him in the purging of his Soule,When he is fit and season'd for his passage? No. Vp Sword, and know thou a more horrid hentWhen he is drunke asleepe: or in his Rage,Or in th' incestuous pleasure of his bed,At gaming, swearing, or about some acteThat ha's no rellish of Saluation in't,Then trip him, that his heeles may kicke at Heauen,And that his Soule may be as damn'd and blackeAs Hell, whereto it goes. My Mother stayes,This Physicke but prolongs thy sickly dayes. Enter. King. My words flye vp, my thoughts remain below,Words without thoughts, neuer to Heauen go. Enter. Enter Queene and Polonius. Pol. He will come straight:Looke you lay home to him,Tell him his prankes haue been too broad to beare with,And that your Grace hath screen'd, and stoode betweeneMuch heate, and him. Ile silence me e'ene heere:Pray you be round with him Ham. within. Mother, mother, mother Qu. Ile warrant you, feare me not. Withdraw, I heare him coming. Enter Hamlet. Ham. Now Mother, what's the matter? Qu. Hamlet, thou hast thy Father much offended Ham. Mother, you haue my Father much offended Qu. Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue Ham. Go, go, you question with an idle tongue Qu. Why how now Hamlet? Ham. Whats the matter now? Qu. Haue you forgot me? Ham. No by the Rood, not so:You are the Queene, your Husbands Brothers wife,But would you were not so. You are my Mother Qu. Nay, then Ile set those to you that can speake Ham. Come, come, and sit you downe, you shall notboudge:You go not till I set you vp a glasse,Where you may see the inmost part of you? Qu. What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murther me? Helpe, helpe, hoa Pol. What hoa, helpe, helpe, helpe Ham. How now, a Rat? dead for a Ducate, dead Pol. Oh I am slaine. Killes Polonius Qu. Oh me, what hast thou done? Ham. Nay I know not, is it the King? Qu. Oh what a rash, and bloody deed is this? Ham. A bloody deed, almost as bad good Mother,As kill a King, and marrie with his Brother Qu. As kill a King? Ham. I Lady, 'twas my word. Thou wretched, rash, intruding foole farewell,I tooke thee for thy Betters, take thy Fortune,Thou find'st to be too busie, is some danger. Leaue wringing of your hands, peace, sit you downe,And let me wring your heart, for so I shallIf it be made of penetrable stuffe;If damned Custome haue not braz'd it so,That it is proofe and bulwarke against Sense Qu. What haue I done, that thou dar'st wag thy tong,In noise so rude against me? Ham. Such an ActThat blurres the grace and blush of Modestie,Cals Vertue Hypocrite, takes off the RoseFrom the faire forehead of an innocent loue,And makes a blister there. Makes marriage vowesAs false as Dicers Oathes. Oh such a deed,As from the body of Contraction pluckesThe very soule, and sweete Religion makesA rapsidie of words. Heauens face doth glow,Yea this solidity and compound masse,With tristfull visage as against the doome,Is thought-sicke at the act Qu. Aye me; what act, that roares so lowd, & thundersin the Index Ham. Looke heere vpon this Picture, and on this,The counterfet presentment of two Brothers:See what a grace was seated on his Brow,Hyperions curles, the front of Ioue himselfe,An eye like Mars, to threaten or commandA Station, like the Herald MercurieNew lighted on a heauen-kissing hill:A Combination, and a forme indeed,Where euery God did seeme to set his Seale,To giue the world assurance of a man. This was your Husband. Looke you now what followes. Heere is your Husband, like a Mildew'd eareBlasting his wholsom breath. Haue you eyes? Could you on this faire Mountaine leaue to feed,And batten on this Moore? Ha? Haue you eyes? You cannot call it Loue: For at your age,The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble,And waites vpon the Iudgement: and what IudgementWould step from this, to this? What diuell was't,That thus hath cousend you at hoodman-blinde? O Shame! where is thy Blush? Rebellious Hell,If thou canst mutine in a Matrons bones,To flaming youth, let Vertue be as waxe. And melt in her owne fire. Proclaime no shame,When the compulsiue Ardure giues the charge,Since Frost it selfe, as actiuely doth burne,As Reason panders Will Qu. O Hamlet, speake no more. Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soule,And there I see such blacke and grained spots,As will not leaue their Tinct Ham. Nay, but to liueIn the ranke sweat of an enseamed bed,Stew'd in Corruption; honying and making loueOuer the nasty Stye Qu. Oh speake to me, no more,These words like Daggers enter in mine eares. No more sweet Hamlet Ham. A Murderer, and a Villaine:A Slaue, that is not twentieth part the tytheOf your precedent Lord. A vice of Kings,A Cutpurse of the Empire and the Rule. That from a shelfe, the precious Diadem stole,And put it in his Pocket Qu. No more. Enter Ghost. Ham.

A King of shreds and patches. Saue me; and houer o're me with your wingsYou heauenly Guards. What would your gracious figure? Qu. Alas he's mad Ham. Do you not come your tardy Sonne to chide,That laps't in Time and Passion, lets go byTh' important acting of your dread command? Oh say Ghost. Do not forget: this VisitationIs but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But looke, Amazement on thy Mother sits;O step betweene her, and her fighting Soule,Conceit in weakest bodies, strongest workes. Speake to her Hamlet Ham. How is it with you Lady? Qu. Alas, how is't with you? That you bend your eye on vacancie,And with their corporall ayre do hold discourse. Forth at your eyes, your spirits wildely peepe,And as the sleeping Soldiours in th' Alarme,Your bedded haire, like life in excrements,Start vp, and stand an end. Oh gentle Sonne,Vpon the heate and flame of thy distemperSprinkle coole patience. Whereon do you looke? Ham. On him, on him: look you how pale he glares,His forme and cause conioyn'd, preaching to stones,Would make them capeable. Do not looke vpon me,Least with this pitteous action you conuertMy sterne effects: then what I haue to do,Will want true colour; teares perchance for blood Qu. To who do you speake this? Ham. Do you see nothing there? Qu. Nothing at all, yet all that is I see Ham. Nor did you nothing heare? Qu. No, nothing but our selues Ham. Why look you there: looke how it steals away:My Father in his habite, as he liued,Looke where he goes euen now out at the Portall. Enter. Qu. This is the very coynage of your Braine,This bodilesse Creation extasie is very cunning in Ham. Extasie? My Pulse as yours doth temperately keepe time,And makes as healthfull Musicke. It is not madnesseThat I haue vttered; bring me to the TestAnd I the matter will re-word: which madnesseWould gamboll from. Mother, for loue of Grace,Lay not a flattering Vnction to your soule,That not your trespasse, but my madnesse speakes:It will but skin and filme the Vlcerous place,Whil'st ranke Corruption mining all within,Infects vnseene. Confesse your selfe to Heauen,Repent what's past, auoyd what is to come,And do not spred the Compost on the Weedes,To make them ranke. Forgiue me this my Vertue,For in the fatnesse of this pursie times,Vertue it selfe, of Vice must pardon begge,Yea courb, and woe, for leaue to do him good Qu. Oh Hamlet,Thou hast cleft my heart in twaine Ham. O throw away the worser part of it,And liue the purer with the other halfe. Good night, but go not to mine Vnkles bed,Assume a Vertue, if you haue it not, refraine to night,And that shall lend a kinde of easinesseTo the next abstinence. Once more goodnight,And when you are desirous to be blest,Ile blessing begge of you. For this same Lord,I do repent: but heauen hath pleas'd it so,To punish me with this, and this with me,That I must be their Scourge and Minister. I will bestow him, and will answer wellThe death I gaue him: so againe, good night. I must be cruell, onely to be kinde;Thus bad begins and worse remaines behinde Qu. What shall I do? Ham. Not this by no meanes that I bid you do:Let the blunt King tempt you againe to bed,Pinch Wanton on your cheeke, call you his Mouse,And let him for a paire of reechie kisses,Or padling in your necke with his damn'd Fingers,Make you to rauell all this matter out,That I essentially am not in madnesse,But made in craft. 'Twere good you let him know,For who that's but a Queene, faire, sober, wise,Would from a Paddocke, from a Bat, a Gibbe,Such deere concernings hide, Who would do so,No in despight of Sense and Secrecie,Vnpegge the Basket on the houses top:Let the Birds flye, and like the famous ApeTo try Conclusions in the Basket, creepeAnd breake your owne necke downe Qu. Be thou assur'd, if words be made of breath,And breath of life: I haue no life to breathWhat thou hast saide to me Ham. I must to England, you know that? Qu. Alacke I had forgot: 'Tis so concluded on Ham. This man shall set me packing:Ile lugge the Guts into the Neighbor roome,Mother goodnight. Indeede this CounsellorIs now most still, most secret, and most graue,Who was in life, a foolish prating Knaue. Come sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night Mother. Exit Hamlet tugging in Polonius. Enter King. King. There's matters in these sighes. These profound heauesYou must translate; Tis fit we vnderstand them. Where is your Sonne? Qu. Ah my good Lord, what haue I seene to night? King. What Gertrude? How do's Hamlet? Qu. Mad as the Seas, and winde, when both contendWhich is the Mightier, in his lawlesse fitBehinde the Arras, hearing something stirre,He whips his Rapier out, and cries a Rat, a Rat,And in his brainish apprehension killesThe vnseene good old man King. Oh heauy deed:It had bin so with vs had we beene there:His Liberty is full of threats to all,To you your selfe, to vs, to euery one. Alas, how shall this bloody deede be answered? It will be laide to vs, whose prouidenceShould haue kept short, restrain'd, and out of haunt,This mad yong man. But so much was our loue,We would not vnderstand what was most fit,But like the Owner of a foule disease,To keepe it from divulging, let's it feedeEuen on the pith of life. Where is he gone? Qu. To draw apart the body he hath kild,O're whom his very madnesse like some OareAmong a Minerall of Mettels baseShewes it selfe pure. He weepes for what is done King. Oh Gertrude, come away:The Sun no sooner shall the Mountaines touch,But we will ship him hence, and this vilde deed,We must with all our Maiesty and SkillBoth countenance, and excuse. Enter Ros. & Guild. Ho Guildenstern:Friends both go ioyne you with some further ayde:Hamlet in madnesse hath Polonius slaine,And from his Mother Clossets hath he drag'd him. Go seeke him out, speake faire, and bring the bodyInto the Chappell. I pray you hast in this. Exit Gent. Come Gertrude, wee'l call vp our wisest friends,To let them know both what we meane to do,And what's vntimely done. Oh come away,My soule is full of discord and dismay. Exeunt. Enter Hamlet. Ham. Safely stowed Gentlemen within. Hamlet, Lord Hamlet Ham. What noise? Who cals on Hamlet? Oh heere they come. Enter Ros. and Guildensterne. Ro. What haue you done my Lord with the dead body? Ham. Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis Kinne Rosin. Tell vs where 'tis, that we may take it thence,And beare it to the Chappell Ham. Do not beleeue it Rosin. Beleeue what? Ham. That I can keepe your counsell, and not mineowne. Besides, to be demanded of a Spundge, what replicationshould be made by the Sonne of a King Rosin. Take you me for a Spundge, my Lord? Ham. I sir, that sokes vp the Kings Countenance, hisRewards, his Authorities (but such Officers do the Kingbest seruice in the end. He keepes them like an Ape inthe corner of his iaw, first mouth'd to be last swallowed,when he needes what you haue glean'd, it is but squeezingyou, and Spundge you shall be dry againe Rosin. I vnderstand you not my Lord Ham. I am glad of it: a knauish speech sleepes in afoolish eare Rosin. My Lord, you must tell vs where the body is,and go with vs to the King Ham. The body is with the King, but the King is notwith the body. The King, is a thing- Guild. A thing my Lord? Ham. Of nothing: bring me to him, hide Fox, and allafter. Exeunt. Enter King. King. I haue sent to seeke him, and to find the bodie:How dangerous is it that this man goes loose:Yet must not we put the strong Law on him:Hee's loued of the distracted multitude,Who like not in their iudgement, but their eyes:And where 'tis so, th' Offenders scourge is weigh'dBut neerer the offence: to beare all smooth, and euen,This sodaine sending him away, must seemeDeliberate pause, diseases desperate growne,By desperate appliance are releeued,Or not at all. Enter Rosincrane. How now? What hath befalne? Rosin. Where the dead body is bestow'd my Lord,We cannot get from him King.

But where is he? Rosin. Without my Lord, guarded to know yourpleasure King. Bring him before vs Rosin. Hoa, Guildensterne? Bring in my Lord. Enter Hamlet and Guildensterne. King. Now Hamlet, where's Polonius? Ham. At Supper King. At Supper? Where? Ham. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten, a certaineconuocation of wormes are e'ne at him. Your wormis your onely Emperor for diet. We fat all creatures elseto fat vs, and we fat our selfe for Magots. Your fat King,and your leane Begger is but variable seruice to dishes,but to one Table that's the end King. What dost thou meane by this? Ham. Nothing but to shew you how a King may goa Progresse through the guts of a Begger King. Where is Polonius Ham. In heauen, send thither to see. If your Messengerfinde him not there, seeke him i'th other place yourselfe: but indeed, if you finde him not this moneth, youshall nose him as you go vp the staires into the Lobby King. Go seeke him there Ham. He will stay till ye come K. Hamlet, this deed of thine, for thine especial safetyWhich we do tender, as we deerely greeueFor that which thou hast done, must send thee henceWith fierie Quicknesse. Therefore prepare thy selfe,The Barke is readie, and the winde at helpe,Th' Associates tend, and euery thing at bentFor England Ham. For England? King. I Hamlet Ham. Good King. So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes Ham. I see a Cherube that see's him: but come, forEngland. Farewell deere Mother King. Thy louing Father Hamlet Hamlet. My Mother: Father and Mother is man andwife: man & wife is one flesh, and so my mother. Come,for England. Exit King. Follow him at foote,Tempt him with speed aboord:Delay it not, Ile haue him hence to night. Away, for euery thing is Seal'd and doneThat else leanes on th' Affaire, pray you make hast. And England, if my loue thou holdst at ought,As my great power thereof may giue thee sense,Since yet thy Cicatrice lookes raw and redAfter the Danish Sword, and thy free awePayes homage to vs; thou maist not coldly setOur Soueraigne Processe, which imports at fullBy Letters coniuring to that effectThe present death of Hamlet. Do it England,For like the Hecticke in my blood he rages,And thou must cure me: Till I know 'tis done,How ere my happes, my ioyes were ne're begun. ExitEnter Fortinbras with an Armie. For. Go Captaine, from me greet the Danish King,Tell him that by his license, FortinbrasClaimes the conueyance of a promis'd MarchOuer his Kingdome. You know the Rendeuous:If that his Maiesty would ought with vs,We shall expresse our dutie in his eye,And let him know so Cap. I will doo't, my Lord For. Go safely on. Enter. Enter Queene and Horatio. Qu. I will not speake with her Hor. She is importunate, indeed distract, her moodewill needs be pittied Qu. What would she haue? Hor. She speakes much of her Father; saies she hearesThere's trickes i'th' world, and hems, and beats her heart,Spurnes enuiously at Strawes, speakes things in doubt,That carry but halfe sense: Her speech is nothing,Yet the vnshaped vse of it doth moueThe hearers to Collection; they ayme at it,And botch the words vp fit to their owne thoughts,Which as her winkes, and nods, and gestures yeeld them,Indeed would make one thinke there would be thought,Though nothing sure, yet much vnhappily Qu. 'Twere good she were spoken with,For she may strew dangerous coniecturesIn ill breeding minds. Let her come in. To my sicke soule (as sinnes true Nature is)Each toy seemes Prologue, to some great amisse,So full of Artlesse iealousie is guilt,It spill's it selfe, in fearing to be spilt. Enter Ophelia distracted. Ophe. Where is the beauteous Maiesty of Denmark Qu. How now Ophelia? Ophe. How should I your true loue know from another one? By his Cockle hat and staffe, and his Sandal shoone Qu. Alas sweet Lady: what imports this Song? Ophe. Say you? Nay pray you marke. He is dead and gone Lady, he is dead and gone,At his head a grasse-greene Turfe, at his heeles a stone. Enter King. Qu. Nay but Ophelia Ophe. Pray you marke. White his Shrow'd as the Mountaine Snow Qu. Alas, looke heere my Lord Ophe. Larded with sweet Flowers:Which bewept to the graue did not go,With true-loue showres King. How do ye, pretty Lady? Ophe. Well, God dil'd you. They say the Owle wasa Bakers daughter. Lord, wee know what we are, butknow not what we may be. God be at your Table King. Conceit vpon her Father Ophe. Pray you let's haue no words of this: but whenthey aske you what it meanes, say you this:To morrow is S[aint]. Valentines day, all in the morning betime,And I a Maid at your Window, to be your Valentine. Then vp he rose, & don'd his clothes, & dupt the chamber dore,Let in the Maid, that out a Maid, neuer departed more King. Pretty Ophelia Ophe. Indeed la? without an oath Ile make an end ont. By gis, and by S[aint]. Charity,Alacke, and fie for shame:Yong men wil doo't, if they come too't,By Cocke they are too blame. Quoth she before you tumbled me,You promis'd me to Wed:So would I ha done by yonder Sunne,And thou hadst not come to my bed King. How long hath she bin thus? Ophe. I hope all will be well. We must bee patient,but I cannot choose but weepe, to thinke they shouldlay him i'th' cold ground: My brother shall knowe of it,and so I thanke you for your good counsell. Come, myCoach: Goodnight Ladies: Goodnight sweet Ladies:Goodnight, goodnight. Enter. King. Follow her close,Giue her good watch I pray you:Oh this is the poyson of deepe greefe, it springsAll from her Fathers death. Oh Gertrude, Gertrude,When sorrowes comes, they come not single spies,But in Battalians. First, her Father slaine,Next your Sonne gone, and he most violent AuthorOf his owne iust remoue: the people muddied,Thicke and vnwholsome in their thoughts, and whispersFor good Polonius death; and we haue done but greenlyIn hugger mugger to interre him. Poore OpheliaDiuided from her selfe, and her faire Iudgement,Without the which we are Pictures, or meere Beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these,Her Brother is in secret come from France,Keepes on his wonder, keepes himselfe in clouds,And wants not Buzzers to infect his eareWith pestilent Speeches of his Fathers death,Where in necessitie of matter Beggard,Will nothing sticke our persons to ArraigneIn eare and eare. O my deere Gertrude, this,Like to a murdering Peece in many places,Giues me superfluous death. A Noise within. Enter a Messenger. Qu. Alacke, what noyse is this? King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the doore. What is the matter? Mes. Saue your selfe, my Lord. The Ocean (ouer-peering of his List)Eates not the Flats with more impittious hasteThen young Laertes, in a Riotous head,Ore-beares your Officers, the rabble call him Lord,And as the world were now but to begin,Antiquity forgot, Custome not knowne,The Ratifiers and props of euery word,They cry choose we? Laertes shall be King,Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds,Laertes shall be King, Laertes King Qu. How cheerefully on the false Traile they cry,Oh this is Counter you false Danish Dogges. Noise within. Enter Laertes. King. The doores are broke Laer. Where is the King, sirs? Stand you all without All. No, let's come in Laer.

I pray you giue me leaue Al. We will, we will Laer. I thanke you: Keepe the doore. Oh thou vilde King, giue me my Father Qu. Calmely good Laertes Laer. That drop of blood, that calmesProclaimes me Bastard:Cries Cuckold to my Father, brands the HarlotEuen heere betweene the chaste vnsmirched browOf my true Mother King. What is the cause Laertes,That thy Rebellion lookes so Gyant-like? Let him go Gertrude: Do not feare our person:There's such Diuinity doth hedge a King,That Treason can but peepe to what it would,Acts little of his will. Tell me Laertes,Why thou art thus Incenst? Let him go Gertrude. Speake man Laer. Where's my Father? King. Dead Qu. But not by him King. Let him demand his fill Laer. How came he dead? Ile not be Iuggel'd with. To hell Allegeance: Vowes, to the blackest diuell. Conscience and Grace, to the profoundest Pit. I dare Damnation: to this point I stand,That both the worlds I giue to negligence,Let come what comes: onely Ile be reueng'dMost throughly for my Father King. Who shall stay you? Laer. My Will, not all the world,And for my meanes, Ile husband them so well,They shall go farre with little King. Good Laertes:If you desire to know the certaintieOf your deere Fathers death, if writ in your reuenge,That Soop-stake you will draw both Friend and Foe,Winner and Looser Laer. None but his Enemies King. Will you know them then La. To his good Friends, thus wide Ile ope my Armes:And like the kinde Life-rend'ring Politician,Repast them with my blood King. Why now you speakeLike a good Childe, and a true Gentleman. That I am guiltlesse of your Fathers death,And am most sensible in greefe for it,It shall as leuell to your Iudgement pierceAs day do's to your eye. A noise within. Let her come in. Enter Ophelia. Laer. How now? what noise is that? Oh heate drie vp my Braines, teares seuen times salt,Burne out the Sence and Vertue of mine eye. By Heauen, thy madnesse shall be payed by waight,Till our Scale turnes the beame. Oh Rose of May,Deere Maid, kinde Sister, sweet Ophelia:Oh Heauens, is't possible, a yong Maids wits,Should be as mortall as an old mans life? Nature is fine in Loue, and where 'tis fine,It sends some precious instance of it selfeAfter the thing it loues Ophe. They bore him bare fac'd on the Beer,Hey non nony, nony, hey nony:And on his graue raines many a teare,Fare you well my Doue Laer. Had'st thou thy wits, and did'st perswade Reuenge,it could not moue thus Ophe. You must sing downe a-downe, and you callhim a-downe-a. Oh, how the wheele becomes it? It isthe false Steward that stole his masters daughter Laer. This nothings more then matter Ophe. There's Rosemary, that's for Remembraunce. Pray loue remember: and there is Paconcies, that's forThoughts Laer. A document in madnesse, thoughts & remembrancefitted Ophe. There's Fennell for you, and Columbines: ther'sRew for you, and heere's some for me. Wee may call itHerbe-Grace a Sundaies: Oh you must weare your Rewwith a difference. There's a Daysie, I would giue yousome Violets, but they wither'd all when my Father dyed:They say, he made a good end;For bonny sweet Robin is all my ioy Laer. Thought, and Affliction, Passion, Hell it selfe:She turnes to Fauour, and to prettinesse Ophe. And will he not come againe,And will he not come againe:No, no, he is dead, go to thy Death-bed,He neuer wil come againe. His Beard as white as Snow,All Flaxen was his Pole:He is gone, he is gone, and we cast away mone,Gramercy on his Soule. And of all Christian Soules, I pray God. God buy ye. Exeunt. Ophelia Laer. Do you see this, you Gods? King. Laertes, I must common with your greefe,Or you deny me right: go but apart,Make choice of whom your wisest Friends you will,And they shall heare and iudge 'twixt you and me;If by direct or by Colaterall handThey finde vs touch'd, we will our Kingdome giue,Our Crowne, our Life, and all that we call OursTo you in satisfaction. But if not,Be you content to lend your patience to vs,And we shall ioyntly labour with your souleTo giue it due content Laer. Let this be so:His meanes of death, his obscure buriall;No Trophee, Sword, nor Hatchment o're his bones,No Noble rite, nor formall ostentation,Cry to be heard, as 'twere from Heauen to Earth,That I must call in question King. So you shall:And where th' offence is, let the great Axe fall. I pray you go with me. Exeunt. Enter Horatio, with an Attendant. Hora. What are they that would speake with me? Ser. Saylors sir, they say they haue Letters for you Hor. Let them come in,I do not know from what part of the worldI should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet. Enter Saylor. Say. God blesse you Sir Hor. Let him blesse thee too Say. Hee shall Sir, and't please him. There's a Letterfor you Sir: It comes from th' Ambassadours that wasbound for England, if your name be Horatio, as I am letto know it is. Reads the Letter. Horatio, When thou shalt haue ouerlook'd this, giue theseFellowes some meanes to the King: They haue Lettersfor him. Ere we were two dayes old at Sea, a Pyrate of veryWarlicke appointment gaue vs Chace. Finding our selues tooslow of Saile, we put on a compelled Valour. In the Grapple, Iboorded them: On the instant they got cleare of our Shippe, soI alone became their Prisoner. They haue dealt with mee, likeTheeues of Mercy, but they knew what they did. I am to doea good turne for them. Let the King haue the Letters I hauesent, and repaire thou to me with as much hast as thou wouldestflye death. I haue words to speake in your eare, will make theedumbe, yet are they much too light for the bore of the Matter. These good Fellowes will bring thee where I am. Rosincranceand Guildensterne, hold their course for England. Of themI haue much to tell thee, Farewell. He that thou knowest thine,Hamlet. Come, I will giue you way for these your Letters,And do't the speedier, that you may direct meTo him from whom you brought them. Enter. Enter King and Laertes. King. Now must your conscience my acquittance seal,And you must put me in your heart for Friend,Sith you haue heard, and with a knowing eare,That he which hath your Noble Father slaine,Pursued my life Laer. It well appeares. But tell me,Why you proceeded not against these feates,So crimefull, and so Capitall in Nature,As by your Safety, Wisedome, all things else,You mainly were stirr'd vp? King. O for two speciall Reasons,Which may to you (perhaps) seeme much vnsinnowed,And yet to me they are strong. The Queen his Mother,Liues almost by his lookes: and for my selfe,My Vertue or my Plague, be it either which,She's so coniunctiue to my life, and soule;That as the Starre moues not but in his Sphere,I could not but by her. The other Motiue,Why to a publike count I might not go,Is the great loue the generall gender beare him,Who dipping all his Faults in their affection,Would like the Spring that turneth Wood to Stone,Conuert his Gyues to Graces. So that my ArrowesToo slightly timbred for so loud a Winde,Would haue reuerted to my Bow againe,And not where I had arm'd them Laer. And so haue I a Noble Father lost,A Sister driuen into desperate tearmes,Who was (if praises may go backe againe)Stood Challenger on mount of all the AgeFor her perfections. But my reuenge will come King. Breake not your sleepes for that,You must not thinkeThat we are made of stuffe, so flat, and dull,That we can let our Beard be shooke with danger,And thinke it pastime. You shortly shall heare more,I lou'd your Father, and we loue our Selfe,And that I hope will teach you to imagine-Enter a Messenger. How now? What Newes? Mes. Letters my Lord from Hamlet, This to yourMaiesty: this to the Queene King. From Hamlet? Who brought them? Mes. Saylors my Lord they say, I saw them not:They were giuen me by Claudio, he receiu'd them King. Laertes you shall heare them:Leaue vs. Exit MessengerHigh and Mighty, you shall know I am set naked on yourKingdome. To morrow shall I begge leaue to see your KinglyEyes. When I shall (first asking your Pardon thereunto) recountth' Occasions of my sodaine, and more strange returne. Hamlet. What should this meane? Are all the rest come backe? Or is it some abuse? Or no such thing? Laer. Know you the hand? Kin.

'Tis Hamlets Character, naked and in a Postscripthere he sayes alone: Can you aduise me? Laer. I'm lost in it my Lord; but let him come,It warmes the very sicknesse in my heart,That I shall liue and tell him to his teeth;Thus diddest thou Kin. If it be so Laertes, as how should it be so:How otherwise will you be rul'd by me? Laer. If so you'l not o'rerule me to a peace Kin. To thine owne peace: if he be now return'd,As checking at his Voyage, and that he meanesNo more to vndertake it; I will worke himTo an exployt now ripe in my Deuice,Vnder the which he shall not choose but fall;And for his death no winde of blame shall breath,But euen his Mother shall vncharge the practice,And call it accident: Some two Monthes henceHere was a Gentleman of Normandy,I'ue seene my selfe, and seru'd against the French,And they ran well on Horsebacke; but this GallantHad witchcraft in't; he grew into his Seat,And to such wondrous doing brought his Horse,As had he beene encorps't and demy-Natur'dWith the braue Beast, so farre he past my thought,That I in forgery of shapes and trickes,Come short of what he did Laer. A Norman was't? Kin. A Norman Laer. Vpon my life Lamound Kin. The very same Laer. I know him well, he is the Brooch indeed,And Iemme of all our Nation Kin. Hee mad confession of you,And gaue you such a Masterly report,For Art and exercise in your defence;And for your Rapier most especiall,That he cryed out, t'would be a sight indeed,If one could match you Sir. This report of hisDid Hamlet so envenom with his Enuy,That he could nothing doe but wish and begge,Your sodaine comming ore to play with him;Now out of this Laer. Why out of this, my Lord? Kin. Laertes was your Father deare to you? Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,A face without a heart? Laer. Why aske you this? Kin. Not that I thinke you did not loue your Father,But that I know Loue is begun by Time:And that I see in passages of proofe,Time qualifies the sparke and fire of it:Hamlet comes backe: what would you vndertake,To show your selfe your Fathers sonne indeed,More then in words? Laer. To cut his throat i'th' Church Kin. No place indeed should murder Sancturize;Reuenge should haue no bounds: but good LaertesWill you doe this, keepe close within your Chamber,Hamlet return'd, shall know you are come home:Wee'l put on those shall praise your excellence,And set a double varnish on the fameThe Frenchman gaue you, bring you in fine together,And wager on your heads, he being remisse,Most generous, and free from all contriuing,Will not peruse the Foiles? So that with ease,Or with a little shuffling, you may chooseA Sword vnbaited, and in a passe of practice,Requit him for your Father Laer. I will doo't. And for that purpose Ile annoint my Sword:I bought an Vnction of a MountebankeSo mortall, I but dipt a knife in it,Where it drawes blood, no Cataplasme so rare,Collected from all Simples that haue VertueVnder the Moone, can saue the thing from death,That is but scratcht withall: Ile touch my point,With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly,It may be death Kin. Let's further thinke of this,Weigh what conuenience both of time and meanesMay fit vs to our shape, if this should faile;And that our drift looke through our bad performance,'Twere better not assaid; therefore this ProiectShould haue a backe or second, that might hold,If this should blast in proofe: Soft, let me seeWee'l make a solemne wager on your commings,I ha't: when in your motion you are hot and dry,As make your bowts more violent to the end,And that he cals for drinke; Ile haue prepar'd himA Challice for the nonce; whereon but sipping,If he by chance escape your venom'd stuck,Our purpose may hold there; how sweet Queene. Enter Queene. Queen. One woe doth tread vpon anothers heele,So fast they'l follow: your Sister's drown'd Laertes Laer. Drown'd! O where? Queen. There is a Willow growes aslant a Brooke,That shewes his hore leaues in the glassie streame:There with fantasticke Garlands did she come,Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daysies, and long Purples,That liberall Shepheards giue a grosser name;But our cold Maids doe Dead Mens Fingers call them:There on the pendant boughes, her Coronet weedsClambring to hang; an enuious sliuer broke,When downe the weedy Trophies, and her selfe,Fell in the weeping Brooke, her cloathes spred wide,And Mermaid-like, a while they bore her vp,Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,As one incapable of her owne distresse,Or like a creature Natiue, and induedVnto that Element: but long it could not be,Till that her garments, heauy with her drinke,Pul'd the poore wretch from her melodious buy,To muddy death Laer. Alas then, is she drown'd? Queen. Drown'd, drown'd Laer. Too much of water hast thou poore Ophelia,And therefore I forbid my teares: but yetIt is our tricke, Nature her custome holds,Let shame say what it will; when these are goneThe woman will be out: Adue my Lord,I haue a speech of fire, that faine would blaze,But that this folly doubts it. Enter. Kin. Let's follow, Gertrude:How much I had to doe to calme his rage? Now feare I this will giue it start againe;Therefore let's follow. Exeunt. Enter two Clownes. Clown. Is she to bee buried in Christian buriall, thatwilfully seekes her owne saluation? Other. I tell thee she is, and therefore make her Grauestraight, the Crowner hath sate on her, and finds it Christianburiall Clo. How can that be, vnlesse she drowned her selfe inher owne defence? Other. Why 'tis found so Clo. It must be Se offendendo, it cannot bee else: forheere lies the point; If I drowne my selfe wittingly, it arguesan Act: and an Act hath three branches. It is anAct to doe and to performe; argall she drown'd her selfewittingly Other. Nay but heare you Goodman Deluer Clown. Giue me leaue; heere lies the water; good:heere stands the man; good: If the man goe to this waterand drowne himselfe; it is will he nill he, he goes;marke you that? But if the water come to him & drownehim; hee drownes not himselfe. Argall, hee that is notguilty of his owne death, shortens not his owne life Other. But is this law? Clo. I marry is't, Crowners Quest Law Other. Will you ha the truth on't: if this had notbeene a Gentlewoman, shee should haue beene buriedout of Christian Buriall Clo. Why there thou say'st. And the more pitty thatgreat folke should haue countenance in this world todrowne or hang themselues, more then their euen Christian. Come, my Spade; there is no ancient Gentlemen,but Gardiners, Ditchers and Graue-makers; they hold vpAdams Profession Other. Was he a Gentleman? Clo. He was the first that euer bore Armes Other. Why he had none Clo. What, ar't a Heathen? how doth thou vnderstandthe Scripture? the Scripture sayes Adam dig'd;could hee digge without Armes? Ile put another questionto thee; if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confessethy selfe- Other. Go too Clo. What is he that builds stronger then either theMason, the Shipwright, or the Carpenter? Other. The Gallowes maker; for that Frame outliues athousand Tenants Clo. I like thy wit well in good faith, the Gallowesdoes well; but how does it well? it does well to thosethat doe ill: now, thou dost ill to say the Gallowes isbuilt stronger then the Church: Argall, the Gallowesmay doe well to thee. Too't againe, Come Other. Who builds stronger then a Mason, a Shipwright,or a Carpenter? Clo. I, tell me that, and vnyoake Other. Marry, now I can tell Clo. Too't Other. Masse, I cannot tell. Enter Hamlet and Horatio a farre off. Clo. Cudgell thy braines no more about it; for yourdull Asse will not mend his pace with beating; and whenyou are ask't this question next, say a Graue-maker: theHouses that he makes, lasts till Doomesday: go, get theeto Yaughan, fetch me a stoupe of Liquor. Sings. In youth when I did loue, did loue,me thought it was very sweete:To contract O the time for a my behoue,O me thought there was nothing meete Ham. Ha's this fellow no feeling of his businesse, thathe sings at Graue-making? Hor. Custome hath made it in him a property of easinesse Ham. 'Tis ee'n so; the hand of little Imployment haththe daintier sense Clowne sings. But Age with his stealing stepshath caught me in his clutch:And hath shipped me intill the Land,as if I had neuer beene such Ham. That Scull had a tongue in it, and could singonce: how the knaue iowles it to th' grownd, as if itwere Caines Iaw-bone, that did the first murther: Itmight be the Pate of a Polititian which this Asse o're Offices:one that could circumuent God, might it not? Hor. It might, my Lord Ham. Or of a Courtier, which could say, Good Morrowsweet Lord: how dost thou, good Lord? thismight be my Lord such a one, that prais'd my Lord sucha ones Horse, when he meant to begge it; might it not? Hor. I, my Lord Ham. Why ee'n so: and now my Lady Wormes,Chaplesse, and knockt about the Mazard with a SextonsSpade; heere's fine Reuolution, if wee had the tricke tosee't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding, butto play at Loggets with 'em? mine ake to thinkeon't Clowne sings. A Pickhaxe and a Spade, a Spade,for and a shrowding-Sheete:O a Pit of Clay for to be made,for such a Guest is meete Ham. There's another: why might not that bee theScull of a Lawyer? where be his Quiddits now? hisQuillets? his Cases? his Tenures, and his Tricks? whydoe's he suffer this rude knaue now to knocke him aboutthe Sconce with a dirty Shouell, and will not tell him ofhis Action of Battery? hum. This fellow might be in'stime a great buyer of Land, with his Statutes, his Recognizances,his Fines, his double Vouchers, his Recoueries:Is this the fine of his Fines, and the recouery of his Recoueries,to haue his fine Pate full of fine Dirt? will hisVouchers vouch him no more of his Purchases, and doubleones too, then the length and breadth of a paire ofIndentures? the very Conueyances of his Lands willhardly lye in this Boxe; and must the Inheritor himselfehaue no more? ha? Hor. Not a iot more, my Lord Ham. Is not Parchment made of Sheep-skinnes? Hor. I my Lord, and of Calue-skinnes too Ham. They are Sheepe and Calues that seek out assurancein that. I will speake to this fellow: whose Graue'sthis Sir? Clo.

Mine Sir:O a Pit of Clay for to be made,for such a Guest is meete Ham. I thinke it be thine indeed: for thou liest in't Clo. You lye out on't Sir, and therefore it is not yours:for my part, I doe not lye in't; and yet it is mine Ham. Thou dost lye in't, to be in't and say 'tis thine:'tis for the dead, not for the quicke, therefore thoulyest Clo. 'Tis a quicke lye Sir, 'twill away againe from meto you Ham. What man dost thou digge it for? Clo. For no man Sir Ham. What woman then? Clo. For none neither Ham. Who is to be buried in't? Clo. One that was a woman Sir; but rest her Soule,shee's dead Ham. How absolute the knaue is? wee must speakeby the Carde, or equiuocation will vndoe vs: by theLord Horatio, these three yeares I haue taken note of it,the Age is growne so picked, that the toe of the Pesantcomes so neere the heeles of our Courtier, hee galls hisKibe. How long hast thou been a Graue-maker? Clo. Of all the dayes i'th' yeare, I came too't that daythat our last King Hamlet o'recame Fortinbras Ham. How long is that since? Clo. Cannot you tell that? euery foole can tell that:It was the very day, that young Hamlet was borne, heethat was mad, and sent into England Ham. I marry, why was he sent into England? Clo. Why, because he was mad; hee shall recouer hiswits there; or if he do not, it's no great matter there Ham. Why? Clo. 'Twill not be seene in him, there the men are asmad as he Ham. How came he mad? Clo. Very strangely they say Ham. How strangely? Clo. Faith e'ene with loosing his wits Ham. Vpon what ground? Clo. Why heere in Denmarke: I haue bin sixeteeneheere, man and Boy thirty yeares Ham. How long will a man lie i'th' earth ere he rot? Clo. Ifaith, if he be not rotten before he die (as we hauemany pocky Coarses now adaies, that will scarce holdthe laying in) he will last you some eight yeare, or nineyeare. A Tanner will last you nine yeare Ham. Why he, more then another? Clo. Why sir, his hide is so tan'd with his Trade, thathe will keepe out water a great while. And your water,is a sore Decayer of your horson dead body. Heres a Scullnow: this Scul, has laine in the earth three & twenty years Ham. Whose was it? Clo. A whoreson mad Fellowes it was;Whose doe you thinke it was? Ham. Nay, I know not Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad Rogue, a pour'd aFlaggon of Renish on my head once. This same ScullSir, this same Scull sir, was Yoricks Scull, the Kings Iester Ham. This? Clo. E'ene that Ham. Let me see. Alas poore Yorick, I knew him Horatio,a fellow of infinite Iest; of most excellent fancy, hehath borne me on his backe a thousand times: And howabhorred my Imagination is, my gorge rises at it. Heerehung those lipps, that I haue kist I know not how oft. Where be your Iibes now? Your Gambals? YourSongs? Your flashes of Merriment that were wont toset the Table on a Rore? No one now to mock your ownIeering? Quite chopfalne? Now get you to my LadiesChamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thicke, to thisfauour she must come. Make her laugh at that: prytheeHoratio tell me one thing Hor. What's that my Lord? Ham. Dost thou thinke Alexander lookt o'this fashioni'th' earth? Hor. E'ene so Ham. And smelt so? Puh Hor. E'ene so, my Lord Ham. To what base vses we may returne Horatio. Why may not Imagination trace the Noble dust of Alexander,till he find it stopping a bunghole Hor. 'Twere to consider: to curiously to consider so Ham. No faith, not a iot. But to follow him thetherwith modestie enough, & likeliehood to lead it; as thus. Alexander died: Alexander was buried: Alexander returnethinto dust; the dust is earth; of earth we makeLome, and why of that Lome (whereto he was conuerted)might they not stopp a Beere-barrell? Imperiall Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay,Might stop a hole to keepe the winde away. Oh, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,Should patch a Wall, t' expell the winters flaw. But soft, but soft, aside; heere comes the King. Enter King, Queene, Laertes, and a Coffin, with Lords attendant. The Queene, the Courtiers. Who is that they follow,And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken,The Coarse they follow, did with disperate hand,Fore do it owne life; 'twas some Estate. Couch we a while, and mark Laer. What Cerimony else? Ham. That is Laertes, a very Noble youth: Marke Laer. What Cerimony else? Priest. Her Obsequies haue bin as farre inlarg'd. As we haue warrantie, her death was doubtfull,And but that great Command, o're-swaies the order,She should in ground vnsanctified haue lodg'd,Till the last Trumpet. For charitable praier,Shardes, Flints, and Peebles, should be throwne on her:Yet heere she is allowed her Virgin Rites,Her Maiden strewments, and the bringing homeOf Bell and Buriall Laer. Must there no more be done ? Priest. No more be done:We should prophane the seruice of the dead,To sing sage Requiem, and such rest to herAs to peace-parted Soules Laer. Lay her i'th' earth,And from her faire and vnpolluted flesh,May Violets spring. I tell thee (churlish Priest)A Ministring Angell shall my Sister be,When thou liest howling? Ham. What, the faire Ophelia? Queene. Sweets, to the sweet farewell. I hop'd thou should'st haue bin my Hamlets wife:I thought thy Bride-bed to haue deckt (sweet Maid)And not t'haue strew'd thy Graue Laer. Oh terrible woer,Fall ten times trebble, on that cursed headWhose wicked deed, thy most Ingenious senceDepriu'd thee of. Hold off the earth a while,Till I haue caught her once more in mine armes:Leaps in the graue. Now pile your dust, vpon the quicke, and dead,Till of this flat a Mountaine you haue made,To o're top old Pelion, or the skyish headOf blew Olympus Ham. What is he, whose griefesBeares such an Emphasis? whose phrase of SorrowConiure the wandring Starres, and makes them standLike wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,Hamlet the Dane Laer. The deuill take thy soule Ham. Thou prai'st not well,I prythee take thy fingers from my throat;Sir though I am not Spleenatiue, and rash,Yet haue I something in me dangerous,Which let thy wisenesse feare. Away thy hand King. Pluck them asunder Qu. Hamlet, Hamlet Gen. Good my Lord be quiet Ham. Why I will fight with him vppon this Theme. Vntill my eielids will no longer wag Qu. Oh my Sonne, what Theame? Ham. I lou'd Ophelia; fortie thousand BrothersCould not (with all there quantitie of Loue)Make vp my summe. What wilt thou do for her? King. Oh he is mad Laertes, Qu.

For loue of God forbeare him Ham. Come show me what thou'lt doe. Woo't weepe? Woo't fight? Woo't teare thy selfe? Woo't drinke vp Esile, eate a Crocodile? Ile doo't. Dost thou come heere to whine;To outface me with leaping in her Graue? Be buried quicke with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of Mountaines; let them throwMillions of Akers on vs; till our groundSindging his pate against the burning Zone,Make Ossa like a wart. Nay, and thou'lt mouth,Ile rant as well as thou Kin. This is meere Madnesse:And thus awhile the fit will worke on him:Anon as patient as the female Doue,When that her Golden Cuplet are disclos'd;His silence will sit drooping Ham. Heare you Sir:What is the reason that you vse me thus? I lou'd you euer; but it is no matter:Let Hercules himselfe doe what he may,The Cat will Mew, and Dogge will haue his day. Enter. Kin. I pray you good Horatio wait vpon him,Strengthen your patience in our last nights speech,Wee'l put the matter to the present push:Good Gertrude set some watch ouer your Sonne,This Graue shall haue a liuing Monument:An houre of quiet shortly shall we see;Till then, in patience our proceeding be. Exeunt. Enter Hamlet and Horatio Ham. So much for this Sir; now let me see the other,You doe remember all the Circumstance Hor. Remember it my Lord? Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kinde of fighting,That would not let me sleepe; me thought I layWorse then the mutines in the Bilboes, rashly,(And praise be rashnesse for it) let vs know,Our indiscretion sometimes serues vs well,When our deare plots do paule, and that should teach vs,There's a Diuinity that shapes our ends,Rough-hew them how we will Hor. That is most certaine Ham. Vp from my CabinMy sea-gowne scarft about me in the darke,Grop'd I to finde out them; had my desire,Finger'd their Packet, and in fine, withdrewTo mine owne roome againe, making so bold,(My feares forgetting manners) to vnsealeTheir grand Commission, where I found Horatio,Oh royall knauery: An exact command,Larded with many seuerall sorts of reason;Importing Denmarks health, and Englands too,With hoo, such Bugges and Goblins in my life,That on the superuize no leasure bated,No not to stay the grinding of the Axe,My head should be struck off Hor. Ist possible? Ham. Here's the Commission, read it at more leysure:But wilt thou heare me how I did proceed? Hor. I beseech you Ham. Being thus benetted round with Villaines,Ere I could make a Prologue to my braines,They had begun the Play. I sate me downe,Deuis'd a new Commission, wrote it faire,I once did hold it as our Statists doe,A basenesse to write faire; and laboured muchHow to forget that learning: but Sir now,It did me Yeomans seriuce: wilt thou knowThe effects of what I wrote? Hor. I, good my Lord Ham. An earnest Coniuration from the King,As England was his faithfull Tributary,As loue betweene them, as the Palme should flourish,As Peace should still her wheaten Garland weare,And stand a Comma 'tweene their amities,And many such like Assis of great charge,That on the view and know of these Contents,Without debatement further, more or lesse,He should the bearers put to sodaine death,Not shriuing time allowed Hor. How was this seal'd? Ham. Why, euen in that was Heauen ordinate;I had my fathers Signet in my Purse,Which was the Modell of that Danish Seale:Folded the Writ vp in forme of the other,Subscrib'd it, gau't th' impression, plac't it safely,The changeling neuer knowne: Now, the next dayWas our Sea Fight, and what to this was sement,Thou know'st already Hor. So Guildensterne and Rosincrance, go too't Ham. Why man, they did make loue to this imploymentThey are not neere my Conscience; their debateDoth by their owne insinuation grow:'Tis dangerous, when the baser nature comesBetweene the passe, and fell incensed pointsOf mighty opposites Hor. Why, what a King is this? Ham. Does it not, thinkst thee, stand me now vponHe that hath kil'd my King, and whor'd my Mother,Popt in betweene th' election and my hopes,Throwne out his Angle for my proper life,And with such coozenage; is't not perfect conscience,To quit him with this arme? And is't not to be damn'dTo let this Canker of our nature comeIn further euill Hor. It must be shortly knowne to him from EnglandWhat is the issue of the businesse there Ham. It will be short,The interim's mine, and a mans life's no moreThen to say one: but I am very sorry good Horatio,That to Laertes I forgot my selfe;For by the image of my Cause, I seeThe Portraiture of his; Ile count his fauours:But sure the brauery of his griefe did put meInto a Towring passion Hor. Peace, who comes heere? Enter young Osricke. Osr. Your Lordship is right welcome back to Denmarke Ham. I humbly thank you Sir, dost know this waterflie? Hor. No my good Lord Ham. Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice toknow him: he hath much Land, and fertile; let a Beastbe Lord of Beasts, and his Crib shall stand at the KingsMesse; 'tis a Chowgh; but as I saw spacious in the possessionof dirt Osr. Sweet Lord, if your friendship were at leysure,I should impart a thing to you from his Maiesty Ham. I will receiue it with all diligence of spirit; putyour Bonet to his right vse, 'tis for the head Osr. I thanke your Lordship, 'tis very hot Ham. No, beleeue mee 'tis very cold, the winde isNortherly Osr. It is indifferent cold my Lord indeed Ham. Mee thinkes it is very soultry, and hot for myComplexion Osr. Exceedingly, my Lord, it is very soultry, as 'twereI cannot tell how: but my Lord, his Maiesty bad me signifieto you, that he ha's laid a great wager on your head:Sir, this is the matter Ham. I beseech you remember Osr. Nay, in good faith, for mine ease in good faith:Sir, you are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is athis weapon Ham. What's his weapon? Osr. Rapier and dagger Ham. That's two of his weapons; but well Osr. The sir King ha's wag'd with him six Barbary horses,against the which he impon'd as I take it, sixe FrenchRapiers and Poniards, with their assignes, as Girdle,Hangers or so: three of the Carriages infaith are verydeare to fancy, very responsiue to the hilts, most delicatecarriages, and of very liberall conceit Ham. What call you the Carriages? Osr. The Carriages Sir, are the hangers Ham. The phrase would bee more Germaine to thematter: If we could carry Cannon by our sides; I wouldit might be Hangers till then; but on sixe Barbary Horsesagainst sixe French Swords: their Assignes, and threeliberall conceited Carriages, that's the French but againstthe Danish; why is this impon'd as you call it? Osr. The King Sir, hath laid that in a dozen passes betweeneyou and him, hee shall not exceed you three hits;He hath one twelue for mine, and that would come toimediate tryall, if your Lordship would vouchsafe theAnswere Ham. How if I answere no? Osr. I meane my Lord, the opposition of your personin tryall Ham. Sir, I will walke heere in the Hall; if it pleasehis Maiestie, 'tis the breathing time of day with me; letthe Foyles bee brought, the Gentleman willing, and theKing hold his purpose; I will win for him if I can: ifnot, Ile gaine nothing but my shame, and the odde hits Osr. Shall I redeliuer you ee'n so? Ham. To this effect Sir, after what flourish your naturewill Osr. I commend my duty to your Lordship Ham. Yours, yours; hee does well to commend ithimselfe, there are no tongues else for's tongue Hor. This Lapwing runs away with the shell on hishead Ham. He did Complie with his Dugge before heesuck't it: thus had he and mine more of the same Beautythat I know the drossie age dotes on; only got the tune ofthe time, and outward habite of encounter, a kinde ofyesty collection, which carries them through & throughthe most fond and winnowed opinions; and doe but blowthem to their tryalls: the Bubbles are out Hor. You will lose this wager, my Lord Ham. I doe not thinke so, since he went into France,I haue beene in continuall practice; I shall winne at theoddes: but thou wouldest not thinke how all heere aboutmy heart: but it is no matter Hor. Nay, good my Lord Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a kinde ofgain-giuing as would perhaps trouble a woman Hor. If your minde dislike any thing, obey. I will forestalltheir repaire hither, and say you are not fit Ham. Not a whit, we defie Augury; there's a speciallProuidence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis notto come: if it bee not to come, it will bee now: if itbe not now; yet it will come; the readinesse is all, since noman ha's ought of what he leaues. What is't to leaue betimes? Enter King, Queene, Laertes and Lords, with other Attendants withFoyles,and Gauntlets, a Table and Flagons of Wine on it. Kin. Come Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me Ham. Giue me your pardon Sir, I'ue done you wrong,But pardon't as you are a Gentleman. This presence knowes,And you must needs haue heard how I am punishtWith sore distraction? What I haue doneThat might your nature honour, and exceptionRoughly awake, I heere proclaime was madnesse:Was't Hamlet wrong'd Laertes? Neuer Hamlet. If Hamlet from himselfe be tane away:And when he's not himselfe, do's wrong Laertes,Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it:Who does it then? His Madnesse? If't be so,Hamlet is of the Faction that is wrong'd,His madnesse is poore Hamlets Enemy. Sir, in this Audience,Let my disclaiming from a purpos'd euill,Free me so farre in your most generous thoughts,That I haue shot mine Arrow o're the house,And hurt my Mother Laer. I am satisfied in Nature,Whose motiue in this case should stirre me mostTo my Reuenge. But in my termes of HonorI stand aloofe, and will no reconcilement,Till by some elder Masters of knowne Honor,I haue a voyce, and president of peaceTo keepe my name vngorg'd. But till that time,I do receiue your offer'd loue like loue,And wil not wrong it Ham. I do embrace it freely,And will this Brothers wager frankely play. Giue vs the Foyles: Come on Laer. Come one for me Ham. Ile be your foile Laertes, in mine ignorance,Your Skill shall like a Starre i'th' darkest night,Sticke fiery off indeede Laer. You mocke me Sir Ham. No by this hand King. Giue them the Foyles yong Osricke,Cousen Hamlet, you know the wager Ham. Verie well my Lord,Your Grace hath laide the oddes a'th' weaker side King. I do not feare it,I haue seene you both:But since he is better'd, we haue therefore oddes Laer. This is too heauy,Let me see another Ham. This likes me well,These Foyles haue all a length. Prepare to play. Osricke. I my good Lord King. Set me the Stopes of wine vpon that Table:If Hamlet giue the first, or second hit,Or quit in answer of the third exchange,Let all the Battlements their Ordinance fire,The King shal drinke to Hamlets better breath,And in the Cup an vnion shal he throwRicher then that, which foure successiue KingsIn Denmarkes Crowne haue worne. Giue me the Cups,And let the Kettle to the Trumpets speake,The Trumpet to the Cannoneer without,The Cannons to the Heauens, the Heauen to Earth,Now the King drinkes to Hamlet. Come, begin,And you the Iudges beare a wary eye Ham. Come on sir Laer. Come on sir. They play.

Ham. One Laer. No Ham. Iudgement Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit Laer. Well: againe King. Stay, giue me drinke. Hamlet, this Pearle is thine,Here's to thy health. Giue him the cup,Trumpets sound, and shot goes off. Ham. Ile play this bout first, set by a-while. Come: Another hit; what say you? Laer. A touch, a touch, I do confesse King. Our Sonne shall win Qu. He's fat, and scant of breath. Heere's a Napkin, rub thy browes,The Queene Carowses to thy fortune, Hamlet Ham. Good Madam King. Gertrude, do not drinke Qu. I will my Lord;I pray you pardon me King. It is the poyson'd Cup, it is too late Ham. I dare not drinke yet Madam,By and by Qu. Come, let me wipe thy face Laer. My Lord, Ile hit him now King. I do not thinke't Laer. And yet 'tis almost 'gainst my conscience Ham. Come for the third. Laertes, you but dally,I pray you passe with your best violence,I am affear'd you make a wanton of me Laer. Say you so? Come on. Play. Osr. Nothing neither way Laer. Haue at you now. In scuffling they change Rapiers. King. Part them, they are incens'd Ham. Nay come, againe Osr. Looke to the Queene there hoa Hor. They bleed on both sides. How is't my Lord? Osr. How is't Laertes? Laer. Why as a WoodcockeTo mine Sprindge, Osricke,I am iustly kill'd with mine owne Treacherie Ham. How does the Queene? King. She sounds to see them bleede Qu. No, no, the drinke, the drinke. Oh my deere Hamlet, the drinke, the drinke,I am poyson'd Ham. Oh Villany! How? Let the doore be lock'd. Treacherie, seeke it out Laer. It is heere Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slaine,No Medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee, there is not halfe an houre of life;The Treacherous Instrument is in thy hand,Vnbated and envenom'd: the foule practiseHath turn'd it selfe on me. Loe, heere I lye,Neuer to rise againe: Thy Mothers poyson'd:I can no more, the King, the King's too blame Ham. The point envenom'd too,Then venome to thy worke. Hurts the King. All. Treason, Treason King. O yet defend me Friends, I am but hurt Ham. Heere thou incestuous, murdrous,Damned Dane,Drinke off this Potion: Is thy Vnion heere? Follow my Mother. King Dyes. Laer. He is iustly seru'd. It is a poyson temp'red by himselfe:Exchange forgiuenesse with me, Noble Hamlet;Mine and my Fathers death come not vpon thee,Nor thine on me. Dyes. Ham. Heauen make thee free of it, I follow thee. I am dead Horatio, wretched Queene adiew,You that looke pale, and tremble at this chance,That are but Mutes or audience to this acte:Had I but time (as this fell Sergeant deathIs strick'd in his Arrest) oh I could tell you. But let it be: Horatio, I am dead,Thou liu'st, report me and my causes rightTo the vnsatisfied Hor. Neuer beleeue it. I am more an Antike Roman then a Dane:Heere's yet some Liquor left Ham. As th'art a man, giue me the Cup. Let go, by Heauen Ile haue't. Oh good Horatio, what a wounded name,(Things standing thus vnknowne) shall liue behind me. If thou did'st euer hold me in thy heart,Absent thee from felicitie awhile,And in this harsh world draw thy breath in paine,To tell my Storie. March afarre off, and shout within. What warlike noyse is this? Enter Osricke. Osr. Yong Fortinbras, with conquest come fro[m] PolandTo th' Ambassadors of England giues this warlike volly Ham. O I dye Horatio:The potent poyson quite ore-crowes my spirit,I cannot liue to heare the Newes from England,But I do prophesie th' election lightsOn Fortinbras, he ha's my dying voyce,So tell him with the occurrents more and lesse,Which haue solicited. The rest is silence. O, o, o, o. Dyes Hora. Now cracke a Noble heart:Goodnight sweet Prince,And flights of Angels sing thee to thy rest,Why do's the Drumme come hither? Enter Fortinbras and English Ambassador, with Drumme, Colours,andAttendants. Fortin. Where is this sight? Hor. What is it ye would see;If ought of woe, or wonder, cease your search For. His quarry cries on hauocke. Oh proud death,What feast is toward in thine eternall Cell. That thou so many Princes, at a shoote,So bloodily hast strooke Amb. The sight is dismall,And our affaires from England come too late,The eares are senselesse that should giue vs hearing,To tell him his command'ment is fulfill'd,That Rosincrance and Guildensterne are dead:Where should we haue our thankes? Hor. Not from his mouth,Had it th' abilitie of life to thanke you:He neuer gaue command'ment for their death. But since so iumpe vpon this bloodie question,You from the Polake warres, and you from EnglandAre heere arriued. Giue order that these bodiesHigh on a stage be placed to the view,And let me speake to th' yet vnknowing world,How these things came about. So shall you heareOf carnall, bloudie, and vnnaturall acts,Of accidentall iudgements, casuall slaughtersOf death's put on by cunning, and forc'd cause,And in this vpshot, purposes mistooke,Falne on the Inuentors head. All this can ITruly deliuer For. Let vs hast to heare it,And call the Noblest to the Audience. For me, with sorrow, I embrace my Fortune,I haue some Rites of memory in this Kingdome,Which are to claime, my vantage dothInuite me, Hor. Of that I shall haue alwayes cause to speake,And from his mouthWhose voyce will draw on more:But let this same be presently perform'd,Euen whiles mens mindes are wilde,Lest more mischanceOn plots, and errors happen For. Let foure CaptainesBeare Hamlet like a Soldier to the Stage,For he was likely, had he beene put onTo haue prou'd most royally:And for his passage,The Souldiours Musicke, and the rites of WarreSpeake lowdly for him. Take vp the body; Such a sight as thisBecomes the Field, but heere shewes much amis. Go, bid the Souldiers shoote. Exeunt. Marching: after the which, a Peale of Ordenance are shotoff. FINIS. The tragedie of HAMLET, Prince of Denmarke.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Julius Caesar, by William ShakespeareThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States andmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww. gutenberg. org. If you are not located in the United States, youwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located beforeusing this eBook. Title: Julius CaesarAuthor: William ShakespeareRelease Date: November 1998 [eBook #1522][Most recently updated: November 18, 2021]Language: EnglishProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers. *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JULIUS CAESAR ***THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS CAESARby William ShakespeareContentsACT IScene I. Rome. A street. Scene II. The same. A public place. Scene III. The same. A street. ACT IIScene I. Rome. Brutus’ orchard. Scene II. A room in Caesar’s palace. Scene III. A street near the Capitol. Scene IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus. ACT IIIScene I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting. Scene II. The same. The Forum. Scene III. The same. A street. ACT IVScene I. A room in Antony’s house. Scene II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis. Scene III. Within the tent of Brutus. ACT VScene I. The plains of Philippi. Scene II. The same. The field of battle. Scene III. Another part of the field. Scene IV. Another part of the field. Scene V. Another part of the field. Dramatis PersonæJULIUS CAESAROCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir after his death. MARCUS ANTONIUS, ” ” ”M. AEMILIUS LEPIDUS, ” ” ”CICERO, PUBLIUS, POPILIUS LENA, Senators. MARCUS BRUTUS, Conspirator against Caesar. CASSIUS, ” ” ”CASCA, ” ” ”TREBONIUS, ” ” ”LIGARIUS,” ” ”DECIUS BRUTUS, ” ” ”METELLUS CIMBER, ” ” ”CINNA, ” ” ”FLAVIUS, tribuneMARULLUS, tribuneARTEMIDORUS, a Sophist of Cnidos. A SoothsayerCINNA, a poet. Another Poet. LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, MESSALA, young CATO, and VOLUMNIUS, Friends toBrutus and Cassius. VARRO, CLITUS, CLAUDIUS, STRATO, LUCIUS, DARDANIUS, Servants to BrutusPINDARUS, Servant to CassiusCALPHURNIA, wife to CaesarPORTIA, wife to BrutusThe Ghost of CaesarSenators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners, Messengers, and Servants. SCENE: Rome, the conspirators’ camp near Sardis, and the plains ofPhilippi. ACT ISCENE I. Rome. A street. Enter Flavius, Marullus and a throng of Citizens. FLAVIUS. Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home. Is this a holiday? What, know you not,Being mechanical, you ought not walkUpon a labouring day without the signOf your profession? Speak, what trade art thou? CARPENTER. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir, what trade are you? COBBLER. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, acobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. COBBLER. A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which isindeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? COBBLER. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, Ican mend you. MARULLUS. What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! COBBLER. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? COBBLER. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with notradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but withal I am indeed, sir,a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon myhandiwork. FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? COBBLER. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. Butindeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in histriumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome,To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oftHave you climb’d up to walls and battlements,To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops,Your infants in your arms, and there have satThe livelong day with patient expectation,To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear,Have you not made an universal shout,That Tiber trembled underneath her banksTo hear the replication of your soundsMade in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way,That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,Pray to the gods to intermit the plagueThat needs must light on this ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this faultAssemble all the poor men of your sort,Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tearsInto the channel, till the lowest streamDo kiss the most exalted shores of all. [_Exeunt Citizens. _]See whether their basest metal be not mov’d;They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol;This way will I. Disrobe the images,If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal. FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no imagesBe hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll aboutAnd drive away the vulgar from the streets;So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wingWill make him fly an ordinary pitch,Who else would soar above the view of men,And keep us all in servile fearfulness. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE II. The same. A public place. Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer. CAESAR. Calphurnia. CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. [_Music ceases. _]CAESAR. Calphurnia. CALPHURNIA. Here, my lord.

CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonius’ way,When he doth run his course. Antonius. ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonius,To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say,The barren, touched in this holy chase,Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says “Do this,” it is perform’d. CAESAR. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [_Music. _]SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still; peace yet again! [_Music ceases. _]CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music,Cry “Caesar”! Speak. Caesar is turn’d to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me; let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say’st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the Ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. [_Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius. _]CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome: I do lack some partOf that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires;I’ll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late:I have not from your eyes that gentlenessAnd show of love as I was wont to have. You bear too stubborn and too strange a handOver your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius,Be not deceived: if I have veil’d my look,I turn the trouble of my countenanceMerely upon myself. Vexed I amOf late with passions of some difference,Conceptions only proper to myself,Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors;But let not therefore my good friends be grieved(Among which number, Cassius, be you one)Nor construe any further my neglect,Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion;By means whereof this breast of mine hath buriedThoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itselfBut by reflection, by some other thing. CASSIUS. ’Tis just:And it is very much lamented, Brutus,That you have no such mirrors as will turnYour hidden worthiness into your eye,That you might see your shadow. I have heardWhere many of the best respect in Rome,(Except immortal Caesar) speaking of Brutus,And groaning underneath this age’s yoke,Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,That you would have me seek into myselfFor that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear;And since you know you cannot see yourselfSo well as by reflection, I, your glass,Will modestly discover to yourselfThat of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus:Were I a common laugher, or did useTo stale with ordinary oaths my loveTo every new protester; if you knowThat I do fawn on men, and hug them hard,And after scandal them; or if you knowThat I profess myself in banqueting,To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. [_Flourish and shout. _]BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the peopleChoose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well,But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good,Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other,And I will look on both indifferently;For let the gods so speed me as I loveThe name of honour more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,As well as I do know your outward favour. Well, honour is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other menThink of this life; but, for my single self,I had as lief not be as live to beIn awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you;We both have fed as well, and we can bothEndure the winter’s cold as well as he:For once, upon a raw and gusty day,The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,Caesar said to me, “Dar’st thou, Cassius, nowLeap in with me into this angry flood,And swim to yonder point? ” Upon the word,Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet itWith lusty sinews, throwing it asideAnd stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive the point propos’d,Caesar cried, “Help me, Cassius, or I sink! ”I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor,Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulderThe old Anchises bear, so from the waves of TiberDid I the tired Caesar. And this manIs now become a god; and Cassius isA wretched creature, and must bend his body,If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain,And when the fit was on him I did markHow he did shake: ’tis true, this god did shake:His coward lips did from their colour fly,And that same eye whose bend doth awe the worldDid lose his lustre. I did hear him groan:Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the RomansMark him, and write his speeches in their books,Alas, it cried, “Give me some drink, Titinius,”As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,A man of such a feeble temper shouldSo get the start of the majestic world,And bear the palm alone. [_Shout. Flourish. _]BRUTUS. Another general shout? I do believe that these applauses areFor some new honours that are heap’d on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow worldLike a Colossus, and we petty menWalk under his huge legs, and peep aboutTo find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates:The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,But in ourselves, that we are underlings. “Brutus” and “Caesar”: what should be in that “Caesar”? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name;Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em,“Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Caesar. ”Now in the names of all the gods at once,Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed,That he is grown so great? Age, thou art sham’d! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood,But it was fam’d with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk’d of Rome,That her wide walls encompass’d but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough,When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say,There was a Brutus once that would have brook’dTh’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,As easily as a king! BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous;What you would work me to, I have some aim:How I have thought of this, and of these times,I shall recount hereafter. For this present,I would not, so with love I might entreat you,Be any further mov’d. What you have said,I will consider; what you have to sayI will with patience hear; and find a timeBoth meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this:Brutus had rather be a villagerThan to repute himself a son of RomeUnder these hard conditions as this timeIs like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak wordsHave struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. Enter Caesar and his Train. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve,And he will, after his sour fashion, tell youWhat hath proceeded worthy note today. BRUTUS. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius,The angry spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow,And all the rest look like a chidden train:Calphurnia’s cheek is pale; and CiceroLooks with such ferret and such fiery eyesAs we have seen him in the Capitol,Being cross’d in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonius. ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat,Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights:Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous;He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not:Yet if my name were liable to fear,I do not know the man I should avoidSo soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much,He is a great observer, and he looksQuite through the deeds of men.

He loves no plays,As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music. Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sortAs if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spiritThat could be mov’d to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart’s easeWhiles they behold a greater than themselves,And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear’dThan what I fear; for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,And tell me truly what thou think’st of him. [_Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays. _]CASCA. You pull’d me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanc’d today,That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanc’d. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offer’d him; and being offer’d him, he put it bywith the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offer’d him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, was’t, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler thanother; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbours shouted. CASSIUS. Who offer’d him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang’d, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery;I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; yet ’twas not acrown neither, ’twas one of these coronets; and, as I told you, he putit by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have hadit. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, tomy thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then heoffered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, ashe refus’d it, the rabblement hooted, and clapp’d their chopt hands,and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal ofstinking breath because Caesar refus’d the crown, that it had, almost,choked Caesar, for he swooned, and fell down at it. And for mine ownpart, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving thebad air. CASSIUS. But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon? CASCA. He fell down in the market-place, and foam’d at mouth, and wasspeechless. BRUTUS. ’Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I,And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. Ifthe tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as hepleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in thetheatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was gladhe refused the crown, he pluck’d me ope his doublet, and offer’d themhis throat to cut. And I had been a man of any occupation, if I wouldnot have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among therogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if hehad done or said anything amiss, he desir’d their worships to think itwas his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, “Alas,good soul! ” and forgave him with all their hearts. But there’s no heedto be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb’d their mothers, they wouldhave done no less. BRUTUS. And, after that, he came thus sad away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say anything? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, and I tell you that, I’ll ne’er look you i’ the face again. Butthose that understood him smil’d at one another and shook their heads;but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more newstoo: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar’s images, areput to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I couldremember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promis’d forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth theeating. CASSIUS. Good. I will expect you. CASCA. Do so; farewell both. [_Exit Casca. _]BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in executionOf any bold or noble enterprise,However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit,Which gives men stomach to digest his wordsWith better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you:Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me,I will come home to you; or, if you will,Come home to me, and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so: till then, think of the world. [_Exit Brutus. _]Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet I see,Thy honourable metal may be wroughtFrom that it is dispos’d: therefore ’tis meetThat noble minds keep ever with their likes;For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus. If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius,He should not humour me. I will this night,In several hands, in at his windows throw,As if they came from several citizens,Writings, all tending to the great opinionThat Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurelyCaesar’s ambition shall be glanced at. And after this, let Caesar seat him sure,For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [_Exit. _]SCENE III. The same. A street. Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca with his sword drawn, and Cicero. CICERO. Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earthShakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero,I have seen tempests, when the scolding windsHave riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seenTh’ ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam,To be exalted with the threatening clouds:But never till tonight, never till now,Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven,Or else the world too saucy with the gods,Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave, you’d know him well by sight,Held up his left hand, which did flame and burnLike twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand,Not sensible of fire remain’d unscorch’d. Besides, I ha’ not since put up my sword,Against the Capitol I met a lion,Who glared upon me, and went surly by,Without annoying me. And there were drawnUpon a heap a hundred ghastly women,Transformed with their fear; who swore they sawMen, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit,Even at noonday upon the marketplace,Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigiesDo so conjointly meet, let not men say,“These are their reasons; they are natural”;For I believe, they are portentous thingsUnto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion,Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid AntoniusSend word to you he would be there tomorrow. CICERO. Goodnight then, Casca: this disturbed skyIs not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. [_Exit Cicero. _] Enter Cassius. CASSIUS.

Who’s there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk’d about the streets,Submitting me unto the perilous night;And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see,Have bar’d my bosom to the thunder-stone;And when the cross blue lightning seem’d to openThe breast of heaven, I did present myselfEven in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble,When the most mighty gods by tokens sendSuch dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca; and those sparks of lifeThat should be in a Roman you do want,Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze,And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder,To see the strange impatience of the Heavens:But if you would consider the true causeWhy all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,Why birds and beasts, from quality and kind;Why old men, fools, and children calculate,Why all these things change from their ordinance,Their natures, and pre-formed faculties,To monstrous quality; why, you shall findThat Heaven hath infus’d them with these spirits,To make them instruments of fear and warningUnto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a manMost like this dreadful night,That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars,As doth the lion in the Capitol;A man no mightier than thyself, or me,In personal action; yet prodigious grown,And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. ’Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is: for Romans nowHave thews and limbs like to their ancestors;But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are dead,And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits;Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed, they say the senators tomorrowMean to establish Caesar as a king;And he shall wear his crown by sea and land,In every place, save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then;Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius:Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat. Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;But life, being weary of these worldly bars,Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides,That part of tyranny that I do bearI can shake off at pleasure. [_Thunder still. _]CASCA. So can I:So every bondman in his own hand bearsThe power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf,But that he sees the Romans are but sheep:He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fireBegin it with weak straws. What trash is Rome,What rubbish, and what offal, when it servesFor the base matter to illuminateSo vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief,Where hast thou led me? I, perhaps, speak thisBefore a willing bondman: then I knowMy answer must be made; but I am arm’d,And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca, and to such a manThat is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand:Be factious for redress of all these griefs,And I will set this foot of mine as farAs who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There’s a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have mov’d alreadySome certain of the noblest-minded RomansTo undergo with me an enterpriseOf honourable-dangerous consequence;And I do know by this, they stay for meIn Pompey’s Porch: for now, this fearful night,There is no stir or walking in the streets;And the complexion of the elementIn favour’s like the work we have in hand,Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. Enter Cinna. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. ’Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait;He is a friend. Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporateTo our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on’t. What a fearful night is this! There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay’d for? tell me. CINNA. Yes, you are. O Cassius, if you couldBut win the noble Brutus to our party—CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper,And look you lay it in the praetor’s chair,Where Brutus may but find it; and throw thisIn at his window; set this up with waxUpon old Brutus’ statue: all this done,Repair to Pompey’s Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he’s goneTo seek you at your house. Well, I will hie,And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre. [_Exit Cinna. _]Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day,See Brutus at his house: three parts of himIs ours already, and the man entireUpon the next encounter, yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people’s hearts! And that which would appear offence in us,His countenance, like richest alchemy,Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him,You have right well conceited. Let us go,For it is after midnight; and ere day,We will awake him, and be sure of him. [_Exeunt. _]ACT IISCENE I. Rome. Brutus’ orchard. Enter Brutus. BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars,Give guess how near to day. —Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius! Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Call’d you, my lord? BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius:When it is lighted, come and call me here. LUCIUS. I will, my lord. [_Exit. _]BRUTUS. It must be by his death: and for my part,I know no personal cause to spurn at him,But for the general. He would be crown’d:How that might change his nature, there’s the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder,And that craves wary walking. Crown him? —that;And then, I grant, we put a sting in him,That at his will he may do danger with. Th’ abuse of greatness is, when it disjoinsRemorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar,I have not known when his affections sway’dMore than his reason. But ’tis a common proof,That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,Whereto the climber-upward turns his face;But when he once attains the upmost round,He then unto the ladder turns his back,Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degreesBy which he did ascend. So Caesar may;Then lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrelWill bear no colour for the thing he is,Fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented,Would run to these and these extremities:And therefore think him as a serpent’s eggWhich hatch’d, would, as his kind grow mischievous;And kill him in the shell. Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I foundThis paper, thus seal’d up, and I am sureIt did not lie there when I went to bed. [_Gives him the letter. _]BRUTUS. Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March? LUCIUS. I know not, sir. BRUTUS. Look in the calendar, and bring me word. LUCIUS. I will, sir. [_Exit. _]BRUTUS. The exhalations, whizzing in the airGive so much light that I may read by them. [_Opens the letter and reads. _]_Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress! _“Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake! ”Such instigations have been often dropp’dWhere I have took them up. “Shall Rome, &c. ” Thus must I piece it out:Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe?

What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of RomeThe Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. “Speak, strike, redress! ” Am I entreatedTo speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise,If the redress will follow, thou receivestThy full petition at the hand of Brutus. Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. [_Knock within. _]BRUTUS. ’Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks. [_Exit Lucius. _]Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar,I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thingAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike a phantasma, or a hideous dream:The genius and the mortal instrumentsAre then in council; and the state of man,Like to a little kingdom, suffers thenThe nature of an insurrection. Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door,Who doth desire to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir, there are moe with him. BRUTUS. Do you know them? LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are pluck’d about their ears,And half their faces buried in their cloaks,That by no means I may discover themBy any mark of favour. BRUTUS. Let ’em enter. [_Exit Lucius. _]They are the faction. O conspiracy,Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,When evils are most free? O, then, by dayWhere wilt thou find a cavern dark enoughTo mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy;Hide it in smiles and affability:For if thou path, thy native semblance on,Not Erebus itself were dim enoughTo hide thee from prevention. Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber and Trebonius. CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest:Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you? BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them; and no man hereBut honours you; and everyone doth wishYou had but that opinion of yourselfWhich every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He is welcome hither. CASSIUS. This Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. He is welcome too. CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselvesBetwixt your eyes and night? CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? [_They whisper. _]DECIUS. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here? CASCA. No. CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey linesThat fret the clouds are messengers of day. CASCA. You shall confess that you are both deceiv’d. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises;Which is a great way growing on the South,Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the NorthHe first presents his fire; and the high EastStands, as the Capitol, directly here. BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one. CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution. BRUTUS. No, not an oath. If not the face of men,The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse—If these be motives weak, break off betimes,And every man hence to his idle bed. So let high-sighted tyranny range on,Till each man drop by lottery. But if these,As I am sure they do, bear fire enoughTo kindle cowards, and to steel with valourThe melting spirits of women; then, countrymen,What need we any spur but our own causeTo prick us to redress? what other bondThan secret Romans, that have spoke the word,And will not palter? and what other oathThan honesty to honesty engag’d,That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards, and men cautelous,Old feeble carrions, and such suffering soulsThat welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swearSuch creatures as men doubt; but do not stainThe even virtue of our enterprise,Nor th’ insuppressive mettle of our spirits,To think that or our cause or our performanceDid need an oath; when every drop of bloodThat every Roman bears, and nobly bears,Is guilty of a several bastardy,If he do break the smallest particleOf any promise that hath pass’d from him. CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us. CASCA. Let us not leave him out. CINNA. No, by no means. METELLUS. O, let us have him, for his silver hairsWill purchase us a good opinion,And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said, his judgment rul’d our hands;Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear,But all be buried in his gravity. BRUTUS. O, name him not; let us not break with him;For he will never follow anythingThat other men begin. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA. Indeed, he is not fit. DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar? CASSIUS. Decius, well urg’d. I think it is not meet,Mark Antony, so well belov’d of Caesar,Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of himA shrewd contriver; and you know, his means,If he improve them, may well stretch so farAs to annoy us all; which to prevent,Let Antony and Caesar fall together. BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius,To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs,Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards;For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar,And in the spirit of men there is no blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit,And not dismember Caesar! But, alas,Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends,Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully;Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods,Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. And let our hearts, as subtle masters do,Stir up their servants to an act of rage,And after seem to chide ’em. This shall markOur purpose necessary, and not envious;Which so appearing to the common eyes,We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him;For he can do no more than Caesar’s armWhen Caesar’s head is off. CASSIUS. Yet I fear him;For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar—BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him:If he love Caesar, all that he can doIs to himself; take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is givenTo sports, to wildness, and much company. TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him; let him not die;For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. [_Clock strikes. _]BRUTUS. Peace! count the clock. CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three. TREBONIUS. ’Tis time to part. CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yetWhether Caesar will come forth today or no;For he is superstitious grown of late,Quite from the main opinion he held onceOf fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies,The unaccustom’d terror of this night,And the persuasion of his augurers,May hold him from the Capitol today. DECIUS. Never fear that: if he be so resolved,I can o’ersway him, for he loves to hearThat unicorns may be betray’d with trees,And bears with glasses, elephants with holes,Lions with toils, and men with flatterers. But when I tell him he hates flatterers,He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work;For I can give his humour the true bent,And I will bring him to the Capitol. CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. BRUTUS. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost? CINNA. Be that the uttermost; and fail not then. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard,Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey;I wonder none of you have thought of him. BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him:He loves me well, and I have given him reason;Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him. CASSIUS. The morning comes upon’s. We’ll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all rememberWhat you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.

BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily;Let not our looks put on our purposes,But bear it as our Roman actors do,With untired spirits and formal constancy. And so, good morrow to you everyone. [_Exeunt all but Brutus. _]Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter;Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber:Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies,Which busy care draws in the brains of men;Therefore thou sleep’st so sound. Enter Portia. PORTIA. Brutus, my lord. BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commitYour weak condition to the raw cold morning. PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. Y’ have ungently, Brutus,Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper,You suddenly arose, and walk’d about,Musing and sighing, with your arms across;And when I ask’d you what the matter was,You star’d upon me with ungentle looks. I urg’d you further; then you scratch’d your head,And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot;Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not,But with an angry wafture of your handGave sign for me to leave you. So I did,Fearing to strengthen that impatienceWhich seem’d too much enkindled; and withalHoping it was but an effect of humour,Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep;And could it work so much upon your shapeAs it hath much prevail’d on your condition,I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all. PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health,He would embrace the means to come by it. BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. PORTIA. Is Brutus sick, and is it physicalTo walk unbraced and suck up the humoursOf the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,And will he steal out of his wholesome bedTo dare the vile contagion of the night,And tempt the rheumy and unpurged airTo add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus;You have some sick offence within your mind,Which, by the right and virtue of my place,I ought to know of: and, upon my knees,I charm you, by my once commended beauty,By all your vows of love, and that great vowWhich did incorporate and make us one,That you unfold to me, your self, your half,Why you are heavy, and what men tonightHave had resort to you; for here have beenSome six or seven, who did hide their facesEven from darkness. BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia. PORTIA. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,Is it excepted I should know no secretsThat appertain to you? Am I your selfBut, as it were, in sort or limitation,To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbsOf your good pleasure? If it be no more,Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife. BRUTUS. You are my true and honourable wife,As dear to me as are the ruddy dropsThat visit my sad heart. PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withalA woman that Lord Brutus took to wife;I grant I am a woman; but withalA woman well reputed, Cato’s daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex,Being so father’d and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em. I have made strong proof of my constancy,Giving myself a voluntary woundHere, in the thigh: can I bear that with patienceAnd not my husband’s secrets? BRUTUS. O ye gods,Render me worthy of this noble wife! [_Knock. _]Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go in awhile;And by and by thy bosom shall partakeThe secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee,All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste. [_Exit Portia. _] Enter Lucius with Ligarius. Lucius, who’s that knocks? LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how? LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue. BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick! LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in handAny exploit worthy the name of honour. BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before,I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d upMy mortified spirit. Now bid me run,And I will strive with things impossible,Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do? BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. LIGARIUS. But are not some whole that we must make sick? BRUTUS. That must we also. What it is, my Caius,I shall unfold to thee, as we are going,To whom it must be done. LIGARIUS. Set on your foot,And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you,To do I know not what; but it sufficethThat Brutus leads me on. [_Thunder. _]BRUTUS. Follow me then. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE II. A room in Caesar’s palace. Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown. CAESAR. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight:Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out,“Help, ho! They murder Caesar! ” Who’s within? Enter a Servant. SERVANT. My lord? CAESAR. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice,And bring me their opinions of success. SERVANT. I will, my lord. [_Exit. _] Enter Calphurnia. CALPHURNIA. What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house today. CAESAR. Caesar shall forth. The things that threaten’d meNe’er look’d but on my back; when they shall seeThe face of Caesar, they are vanished. CALPHURNIA. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies,Yet now they fright me. There is one within,Besides the things that we have heard and seen,Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets,And graves have yawn’d, and yielded up their dead;Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the cloudsIn ranks and squadrons and right form of war,Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol;The noise of battle hurtled in the air,Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan,And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar, these things are beyond all use,And I do fear them! CAESAR. What can be avoidedWhose end is purpos’d by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictionsAre to the world in general as to Caesar. CALPHURNIA. When beggars die, there are no comets seen;The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. CAESAR. Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,It seems to me most strange that men should fear,Seeing that death, a necessary end,Will come when it will come. Enter Servant. What say the augurers? SERVANT. They would not have you to stir forth today. Plucking the entrails of an offering forth,They could not find a heart within the beast. CAESAR. The gods do this in shame of cowardice:Caesar should be a beast without a heartIf he should stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not. Danger knows full wellThat Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter’d in one day,And I the elder and more terrible,And Caesar shall go forth. CALPHURNIA. Alas, my lord,Your wisdom is consum’d in confidence. Do not go forth today: call it my fearThat keeps you in the house, and not your own. We’ll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house,And he shall say you are not well today.

Let me upon my knee prevail in this. CAESAR. Mark Antony shall say I am not well,And for thy humour, I will stay at home. Enter Decius. Here’s Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so. DECIUS. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar. I come to fetch you to the Senate-house. CAESAR. And you are come in very happy timeTo bear my greeting to the Senators,And tell them that I will not come today. Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser:I will not come today. Tell them so, Decius. CALPHURNIA. Say he is sick. CAESAR. Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far,To be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth? Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. DECIUS. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause,Lest I be laugh’d at when I tell them so. CAESAR. The cause is in my will; I will not come. That is enough to satisfy the Senate. But for your private satisfaction,Because I love you, I will let you know:Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home. She dreamt tonight she saw my statue,Which like a fountain with an hundred spoutsDid run pure blood; and many lusty RomansCame smiling, and did bathe their hands in it. And these does she apply for warnings and portentsAnd evils imminent; and on her kneeHath begg’d that I will stay at home today. DECIUS. This dream is all amiss interpreted:It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting blood in many pipes,In which so many smiling Romans bath’d,Signifies that from you great Rome shall suckReviving blood, and that great men shall pressFor tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calphurnia’s dream is signified. CAESAR. And this way have you well expounded it. DECIUS. I have, when you have heard what I can say;And know it now. The Senate have concludedTo give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come,Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mockApt to be render’d, for someone to say,“Break up the Senate till another time,When Caesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams. ”If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper“Lo, Caesar is afraid”? Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear loveTo your proceeding bids me tell you this,And reason to my love is liable. CAESAR. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. Enter Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, Cinna and Publius. And look where Publius is come to fetch me. PUBLIUS. Good morrow, Caesar. CAESAR. Welcome, Publius. What, Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too? Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius,Caesar was ne’er so much your enemyAs that same ague which hath made you lean. What is’t o’clock? BRUTUS. Caesar, ’tis strucken eight. CAESAR. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. Enter Antony. See! Antony, that revels long a-nights,Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony. ANTONY. So to most noble Caesar. CAESAR. Bid them prepare within. I am to blame to be thus waited for. Now, Cinna; now, Metellus; what, Trebonius! I have an hour’s talk in store for you:Remember that you call on me today;Be near me, that I may remember you. TREBONIUS. Caesar, I will. [_Aside. _] and so near will I be,That your best friends shall wish I had been further. CAESAR. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me;And we, like friends, will straightway go together. BRUTUS. [_Aside. _] That every like is not the same, O Caesar,The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE III. A street near the Capitol. Enter Artemidorus, reading a paper. ARTEMIDORUS. _“Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca;have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber;Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wrong’d Caius Ligarius. Thereis but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. Ifthou be’st not immortal, look about you: security gives way toconspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, Artemidorus. ”_Here will I stand till Caesar pass along,And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot liveOut of the teeth of emulation. If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayest live;If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. [_Exit. _]SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus. Enter Portia and Lucius. PORTIA. I pr’ythee, boy, run to the Senate-house;Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay? LUCIUS. To know my errand, madam. PORTIA. I would have had thee there and here again,Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. [_Aside. _] O constancy, be strong upon my side,Set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and tongue! I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! Art thou here yet? LUCIUS. Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else? PORTIA. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well,For he went sickly forth: and take good noteWhat Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy, what noise is that? LUCIUS. I hear none, madam. PORTIA. Pr’ythee, listen well. I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray,And the wind brings it from the Capitol. LUCIUS. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. Enter the Soothsayer. PORTIA. Come hither, fellow:Which way hast thou been? SOOTHSAYER. At mine own house, good lady. PORTIA. What is’t o’clock? SOOTHSAYER. About the ninth hour, lady. PORTIA. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol? SOOTHSAYER. Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand,To see him pass on to the Capitol. PORTIA. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not? SOOTHSAYER. That I have, lady, if it will please CaesarTo be so good to Caesar as to hear me,I shall beseech him to befriend himself. PORTIA. Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him? SOOTHSAYER. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow.

The throng that follows Caesar at the heels,Of Senators, of Praetors, common suitors,Will crowd a feeble man almost to death:I’ll get me to a place more void, and thereSpeak to great Caesar as he comes along. [_Exit. _]PORTIA. I must go in. [_Aside. _] Ay me, how weak a thingThe heart of woman is! O Brutus,The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise! Sure, the boy heard me. Brutus hath a suitThat Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint. Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord;Say I am merry; come to me again,And bring me word what he doth say to thee. [_Exeunt. _]ACT IIISCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting. A crowd of people in the street leading to the Capitol. Flourish. Enter Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Artemidorus, Publius, Popilius and the Soothsayer. CAESAR. The Ides of March are come. SOOTHSAYER. Ay, Caesar; but not gone. ARTEMIDORUS. Hail, Caesar! Read this schedule. DECIUS. Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read,At your best leisure, this his humble suit. ARTEMIDORUS. O Caesar, read mine first; for mine’s a suitThat touches Caesar nearer. Read it, great Caesar. CAESAR. What touches us ourself shall be last serv’d. ARTEMIDORUS. Delay not, Caesar. Read it instantly. CAESAR. What, is the fellow mad? PUBLIUS. Sirrah, give place. CASSIUS. What, urge you your petitions in the street? Come to the Capitol. Caesar enters the Capitol, the rest following. All the Senators rise. POPILIUS. I wish your enterprise today may thrive. CASSIUS. What enterprise, Popilius? POPILIUS. Fare you well. [_Advances to Caesar. _]BRUTUS. What said Popilius Lena? CASSIUS. He wish’d today our enterprise might thrive. I fear our purpose is discovered. BRUTUS. Look how he makes to Caesar: mark him. CASSIUS. Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention. Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known,Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back,For I will slay myself. BRUTUS. Cassius, be constant:Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes;For look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change. CASSIUS. Trebonius knows his time, for look you, Brutus,He draws Mark Antony out of the way. [_Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. Caesar and the Senators take their seats. _]DECIUS. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go,And presently prefer his suit to Caesar. BRUTUS. He is address’d; press near and second him. CINNA. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand. CAESAR. Are we all ready? What is now amissThat Caesar and his Senate must redress? METELLUS. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar,Metellus Cimber throws before thy seatAn humble heart. [_Kneeling. _]CAESAR. I must prevent thee, Cimber. These couchings and these lowly courtesiesMight fire the blood of ordinary men,And turn pre-ordinance and first decreeInto the law of children. Be not fond,To think that Caesar bears such rebel bloodThat will be thaw’d from the true qualityWith that which melteth fools; I mean sweet words,Low-crooked curtsies, and base spaniel fawning. Thy brother by decree is banished:If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn for him,I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. Know, Caesar dost not wrong, nor without causeWill he be satisfied. METELLUS. Is there no voice more worthy than my own,To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s earFor the repealing of my banish’d brother? BRUTUS. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar;Desiring thee that Publius Cimber mayHave an immediate freedom of repeal. CAESAR. What, Brutus? CASSIUS. Pardon, Caesar; Caesar, pardon:As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall,To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. CAESAR. I could be well mov’d, if I were as you;If I could pray to move, prayers would move me:But I am constant as the northern star,Of whose true-fix’d and resting qualityThere is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks,They are all fire, and every one doth shine;But there’s but one in all doth hold his place. So in the world; ’tis furnish’d well with men,And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;Yet in the number I do know but oneThat unassailable holds on his rank,Unshak’d of motion: and that I am he,Let me a little show it, even in this,That I was constant Cimber should be banish’d,And constant do remain to keep him so. CINNA. O Caesar,—CAESAR. Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus? DECIUS. Great Caesar,—CAESAR. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel? CASCA. Speak, hands, for me! [_Casca stabs Caesar in the neck. Caesar catches hold of his arm. He is then stabbed by several other Conspirators, and at last by Marcus Brutus. _]CAESAR. _Et tu, Brute? _—Then fall, Caesar! [_Dies. The Senators and People retire in confusion. _]CINNA. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets. CASSIUS. Some to the common pulpits and cry out,“Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement! ”BRUTUS. People and Senators, be not affrighted. Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid. CASCA. Go to the pulpit, Brutus. DECIUS. And Cassius too. BRUTUS. Where’s Publius? CINNA. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny. METELLUS. Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar’sShould chance—BRUTUS. Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer! There is no harm intended to your person,Nor to no Roman else. So tell them, Publius. CASSIUS. And leave us, Publius; lest that the peopleRushing on us, should do your age some mischief. BRUTUS. Do so; and let no man abide this deedBut we the doers. Enter Trebonius.

CASSIUS. Where’s Antony? TREBONIUS. Fled to his house amaz’d. Men, wives, and children stare, cry out, and run,As it were doomsday. BRUTUS. Fates, we will know your pleasures. That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the timeAnd drawing days out, that men stand upon. CASCA. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of lifeCuts off so many years of fearing death. BRUTUS. Grant that, and then is death a benefit:So are we Caesar’s friends, that have abridg’dHis time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop,And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s bloodUp to the elbows, and besmear our swords:Then walk we forth, even to the market-place,And waving our red weapons o’er our heads,Let’s all cry, “Peace, freedom, and liberty! ”CASSIUS. Stoop then, and wash. How many ages henceShall this our lofty scene be acted overIn States unborn, and accents yet unknown! BRUTUS. How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport,That now on Pompey’s basis lies along,No worthier than the dust! CASSIUS. So oft as that shall be,So often shall the knot of us be call’dThe men that gave their country liberty. DECIUS. What, shall we forth? CASSIUS. Ay, every man away. Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heelsWith the most boldest and best hearts of Rome. Enter a Servant. BRUTUS. Soft, who comes here? A friend of Antony’s. SERVANT. Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel;Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down;And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say:Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest;Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving;Say I love Brutus and I honour him;Say I fear’d Caesar, honour’d him, and lov’d him. If Brutus will vouchsafe that AntonyMay safely come to him, and be resolv’dHow Caesar hath deserv’d to lie in death,Mark Antony shall not love Caesar deadSo well as Brutus living; but will followThe fortunes and affairs of noble BrutusThorough the hazards of this untrod state,With all true faith. So says my master Antony. BRUTUS. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman;I never thought him worse. Tell him, so please him come unto this place,He shall be satisfied and, by my honour,Depart untouch’d. SERVANT. I’ll fetch him presently. [_Exit. _]BRUTUS. I know that we shall have him well to friend. CASSIUS. I wish we may: but yet have I a mindThat fears him much; and my misgiving stillFalls shrewdly to the purpose. Enter Antony. BRUTUS. But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony. ANTONY. O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend,Who else must be let blood, who else is rank:If I myself, there is no hour so fitAs Caesar’s death’s hour; nor no instrumentOf half that worth as those your swords, made richWith the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years,I shall not find myself so apt to die. No place will please me so, no means of death,As here by Caesar, and by you cut off,The choice and master spirits of this age. BRUTUS. O Antony, beg not your death of us. Though now we must appear bloody and cruel,As by our hands and this our present actYou see we do; yet see you but our handsAnd this the bleeding business they have done. Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful;And pity to the general wrong of Rome—As fire drives out fire, so pity pity—Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part,To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony;Our arms in strength of malice, and our heartsOf brothers’ temper, do receive you inWith all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. CASSIUS. Your voice shall be as strong as any man’sIn the disposing of new dignities. BRUTUS. Only be patient till we have appeas’dThe multitude, beside themselves with fear,And then we will deliver you the causeWhy I, that did love Caesar when I struck him,Have thus proceeded. ANTONY. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand. First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you;Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand. Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus;Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours;Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all—alas, what shall I say? My credit now stands on such slippery ground,That one of two bad ways you must conceit me,Either a coward or a flatterer. That I did love thee, Caesar, O, ’tis true:If then thy spirit look upon us now,Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death,To see thy Antony making his peace,Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes,Most noble, in the presence of thy corse? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds,Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood,It would become me better than to closeIn terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, brave hart;Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand,Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe. O world, thou wast the forest to this hart;And this indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer strucken by many princes,Dost thou here lie! CASSIUS. Mark Antony,—ANTONY. Pardon me, Caius Cassius:The enemies of Caesar shall say this;Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. CASSIUS. I blame you not for praising Caesar so;But what compact mean you to have with us? Will you be prick’d in number of our friends,Or shall we on, and not depend on you? ANTONY. Therefore I took your hands; but was indeedSway’d from the point, by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all, and love you all,Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasonsWhy, and wherein, Caesar was dangerous. BRUTUS. Or else were this a savage spectacle. Our reasons are so full of good regardThat were you, Antony, the son of Caesar,You should be satisfied. ANTONY. That’s all I seek,And am moreover suitor that I mayProduce his body to the market-place;And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend,Speak in the order of his funeral. BRUTUS. You shall, Mark Antony. CASSIUS. Brutus, a word with you. [_Aside to Brutus. _] You know not what you do. Do not consentThat Antony speak in his funeral. Know you how much the people may be mov’dBy that which he will utter? BRUTUS. [_Aside to Cassius. _] By your pardon:I will myself into the pulpit first,And show the reason of our Caesar’s death. What Antony shall speak, I will protestHe speaks by leave and by permission;And that we are contented Caesar shallHave all true rights and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong. CASSIUS. [_Aside to Brutus. _] I know not what may fall; I like it not. BRUTUS. Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar’s body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us,But speak all good you can devise of Caesar,And say you do’t by our permission;Else shall you not have any hand at allAbout his funeral. And you shall speakIn the same pulpit whereto I am going,After my speech is ended. ANTONY. Be it so;I do desire no more. BRUTUS. Prepare the body, then, and follow us. [_Exeunt all but Antony. _]ANTONY. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,That I am meek and gentle with these butchers. Thou art the ruins of the noblest manThat ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,Which, like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lipsTo beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;Domestic fury and fierce civil strifeShall cumber all the parts of Italy;Blood and destruction shall be so in use,And dreadful objects so familiar,That mothers shall but smile when they beholdTheir infants quartered with the hands of war;All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds:And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,With Ate by his side come hot from Hell,Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voiceCry havoc and let slip the dogs of war,That this foul deed shall smell above the earthWith carrion men, groaning for burial. Enter a Servant. You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not? SERVANT. I do, Mark Antony. ANTONY. Caesar did write for him to come to Rome. SERVANT. He did receive his letters, and is coming,And bid me say to you by word of mouth,—[_Seeing the body. _] O Caesar! ANTONY. Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes,Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine,Began to water. Is thy master coming? SERVANT. He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome. ANTONY. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc’d. Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome,No Rome of safety for Octavius yet. Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile;Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corseInto the market-place: there shall I try,In my oration, how the people takeThe cruel issue of these bloody men;According to the which thou shalt discourseTo young Octavius of the state of things. Lend me your hand. [_Exeunt with Caesar’s body. _]SCENE II.

The same. The Forum. Enter Brutus and goes into the pulpit, and Cassius, with a throng of Citizens. CITIZENS. We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied. BRUTUS. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends. Cassius, go you into the other streetAnd part the numbers. Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here;Those that will follow Cassius, go with him;And public reasons shall be renderedOf Caesar’s death. FIRST CITIZEN. I will hear Brutus speak. SECOND CITIZEN. I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons,When severally we hear them rendered. [_Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus goes into the rostrum. _]THIRD CITIZEN. The noble Brutus is ascended: silence! BRUTUS. Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause; and be silent,that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour, and have respect to minehonour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom, and awake yoursenses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in thisassembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ loveto Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutusrose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less,but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and dieall slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? As Caesarloved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as hewas valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. Thereis tears, for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; anddeath, for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that wouldnot be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here sovile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have Ioffended. I pause for a reply. CITIZENS. None, Brutus, none. BRUTUS. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar than you shalldo to Brutus. The question of his death is enroll’d in the Capitol, hisglory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforc’d,for which he suffered death. Enter Antony and others, with Caesar’s body. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no handin his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in thecommonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart, that, as Islew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger formyself, when it shall please my country to need my death. CITIZENS. Live, Brutus! live, live! FIRST CITIZEN. Bring him with triumph home unto his house. SECOND CITIZEN. Give him a statue with his ancestors. THIRD CITIZEN. Let him be Caesar. FOURTH CITIZEN. Caesar’s better partsShall be crown’d in Brutus. FIRST CITIZEN. We’ll bring him to his house with shouts and clamours. BRUTUS. My countrymen,—SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! Silence! Brutus speaks. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace, ho! BRUTUS. Good countrymen, let me depart alone,And, for my sake, stay here with Antony. Do grace to Caesar’s corpse, and grace his speechTending to Caesar’s glories, which Mark Antony,By our permission, is allow’d to make. I do entreat you, not a man depart,Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [_Exit. _]FIRST CITIZEN. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony. THIRD CITIZEN. Let him go up into the public chair. We’ll hear him. Noble Antony, go up. ANTONY. For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you. [_Goes up. _]FOURTH CITIZEN. What does he say of Brutus? THIRD CITIZEN. He says, for Brutus’ sakeHe finds himself beholding to us all. FOURTH CITIZEN. ’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here! FIRST CITIZEN. This Caesar was a tyrant. THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, that’s certain. We are blest that Rome is rid of him. SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! let us hear what Antony can say. ANTONY. You gentle Romans,—CITIZENS. Peace, ho! let us hear him. ANTONY. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them,The good is oft interred with their bones;So let it be with Caesar. The noble BrutusHath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it was a grievous fault,And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,For Brutus is an honourable man,So are they all, all honourable men,Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me;But Brutus says he was ambitious,And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome,Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the LupercalI thrice presented him a kingly crown,Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;And sure he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause;What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,And men have lost their reason. Bear with me. My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,And I must pause till it come back to me. FIRST CITIZEN. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. SECOND CITIZEN. If thou consider rightly of the matter,Caesar has had great wrong. THIRD CITIZEN. Has he, masters? I fear there will a worse come in his place. FOURTH CITIZEN. Mark’d ye his words? He would not take the crown;Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious. FIRST CITIZEN. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. SECOND CITIZEN. Poor soul, his eyes are red as fire with weeping. THIRD CITIZEN. There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. FOURTH CITIZEN. Now mark him; he begins again to speak. ANTONY. But yesterday the word of Caesar mightHave stood against the world; now lies he there,And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! If I were dispos’d to stirYour hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong,Who, you all know, are honourable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather chooseTo wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar,I found it in his closet; ’tis his will:Let but the commons hear this testament,Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds,And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,And, dying, mention it within their wills,Bequeathing it as a rich legacyUnto their issue. FOURTH CITIZEN. We’ll hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony. CITIZENS. The will, the will! We will hear Caesar’s will. ANTONY. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it.