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Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours shed blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin! Prince. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? Ben. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did stay. Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal Your high displeasure. All this- uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd- Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, 'Hold, friends! friends, part! ' and swifter than his tongue, His agile arm beats down their fatal points, And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled; But by-and-by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain'd revenge, And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain; And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. Cap. Wife. He is a kinsman to the Montague; Affection makes him false, he speaks not true. Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give. Romeo slew Tybalt; Romeo must not live. Prince. Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio. Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? Mon. Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio's friend; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt. Prince. And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence. I have an interest in your hate's proceeding, My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding; But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine That you shall all repent the loss of mine. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet alone. Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging! Such a wagoner As Phaeton would whip you to the West And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms untalk'd of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night; Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it; and though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, Enter Nurse, with cords. And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch? Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. [Throws them down. ] Jul. Ay me! what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands Nurse. Ah, weraday! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone! Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead! Jul. Can heaven be so envious? Nurse. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo! Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! Jul. What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but 'I,' And that bare vowel 'I' shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I, if there be such an 'I'; Or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'I. ' If he be slain, say 'I'; or if not, 'no. ' Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, (God save the mark! ) here on his manly breast. A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight. Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once! To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman That ever I should live to see thee dead! Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaught'red, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is living, if those two are gone? Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished. Jul. O God! Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? Nurse. It did, it did! alas the day, it did! Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st- A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace! Nurse. There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where's my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo! Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin? Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring! Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, That murd'red me. I would forget it fain; But O, it presses to my memory Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds! 'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo- banished. ' That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,' Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there; Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, Why followed not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,' Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov'd? But with a rearward following Tybalt's death, 'Romeo is banished'- to speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. 'Romeo is banished'- There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word's death; no words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, nurse? Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd, Both you and I, for Romeo is exil'd. He made you for a highway to my bed; But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords; come, nurse. I'll to my wedding bed; And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead! Nurse. Hie to your chamber. I'll find Romeo To comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell. Jul. O, find him! give this ring to my true knight And bid him come to take his last farewell. Exeunt. Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar [Laurence]. Friar. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. Rom. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand That I yet know not?

Friar. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom. Rom. What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? Friar. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips- Not body's death, but body's banishment. Rom. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say 'death'; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say 'banishment. ' Friar. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish'd from the world, And world's exile is death. Then 'banishment' Is death misterm'd. Calling death 'banishment,' Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. Friar. O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her; But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; But Romeo may not- he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. And sayest thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me- 'banished'? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling attends it! How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, To mangle me with that word 'banished'? Friar. Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak. Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Friar. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. Rom. Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more. Friar. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Friar. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knock [within]. Friar. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. Rom. Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. Knock. Friar. Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Romeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken. - Stay awhile! - Stand up; Knock. Run to my study. - By-and-by! - God's will, What simpleness is this. - I come, I come! Knock. Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will Nurse. [within] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. Friar. Welcome then. Enter Nurse. Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo? Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case, Just in her case! Friar. O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament! Nurse. Even so lies she, Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man. For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand! Why should you fall into so deep an O? Rom. (rises) Nurse- Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of all. Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murtherer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood remov'd but little from her own? Where is she? and how doth she! and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love? Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murther her; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [Draws his dagger. ] Friar. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too. The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend And turns it to exile. There art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua, Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went'st forth in lamentation. Go before, nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming. Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. Exit. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this! Friar. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence. Sojourn in Mantua. I'll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. Farewell; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. Exeunt. Scene IV. Capulet's houseEnter Old Capulet, his Wife, and Paris. Cap. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily That we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die. 'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter. Lady. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow; To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness.

Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love. I think she will be rul'd In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love And bid her (mark you me? ) on Wednesday next- But, soft! what day is this? Par. Monday, my lord. Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell her She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? We'll keep no great ado- a friend or two; For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much. Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed; Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, My lord. - Light to my chamber, ho! Afore me, It is so very very late That we may call it early by-and-by. Good night. ExeuntScene V. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft, at the Window. Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Jul. Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on the way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone. Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. How is't, my soul? Let's talk; it is not day. Jul. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes; O, now I would they had chang'd voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day! O, now be gone! More light and light it grows. Rom. More light and light- more dark and dark our woes! Enter Nurse. Nurse. Madam! Jul. Nurse? Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke; be wary, look about. Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. [Exit. ] Rom. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend. He goeth down. Jul. Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend? I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo! Rom. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Jul. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again? Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! Exit. Jul. O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, Fortune, For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back. Lady. [within] Ho, daughter! are you up? Jul. Who is't that calls? It is my lady mother. Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither? Enter Mother. Lady. Why, how now, Juliet? Jul. Madam, I am not well. Lady. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit. Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. Lady. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for. Jul. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. Lady. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him. Jul. What villain, madam? Lady. That same villain Romeo. Jul. [aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder. - God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. Lady. That is because the traitor murderer lives. Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin's death! Lady. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish'd runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram That he shall soon keep Tybalt company; And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. Jul. Indeed I never shall be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him- dead- Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd. Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it; That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him nam'd and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him! Lady. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship? Lady. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy That thou expects not nor I look'd not for. Jul. Madam, in happy time! What day is that? Lady. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. Jul. Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride! I wonder at this haste, that I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed! Lady. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. Cap. When the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew, But for the sunset of my brother's son It rains downright. How now? a conduit, girl? What, still in tears?

Evermore show'ring? In one little body Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind: For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs, Who, raging with thy tears and they with them, Without a sudden calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? Have you delivered to her our decree? Lady. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave! Cap. Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife. How? Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? Jul. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, But thankful even for hate that is meant love. Cap. How, how, how, how, choplogic? What is this? 'Proud'- and 'I thank you'- and 'I thank you not'- And yet 'not proud'? Mistress minion you, Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage! You tallow-face! Lady. Fie, fie! what, are you mad? Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what- get thee to church a Thursday Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me! My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding! Nurse. God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. Cap. And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good Prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go! Nurse. I speak no treason. Cap. O, God-i-god-en! Nurse. May not one speak? Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, For here we need it not. Lady. You are too hot. Cap. God's bread I it makes me mad. Day, night, late, early, At home, abroad, alone, in company, Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been To have her match'd; and having now provided A gentleman of princely parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd, Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man- And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender, To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love; I am too young, I pray you pardon me'! But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you. Graze where you will, you shall not house with me. Look to't, think on't; I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to't. Bethink you. I'll not be forsworn. Exit. Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week; Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. Lady. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit. Jul. O God! - O nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself! What say'st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse. Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to nothing That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the County. O, he's a lovely gentleman! Romeo's a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second match, For it excels your first; or if it did not, Your first is dead- or 'twere as good he were As living here and you no use of him. Jul. Speak'st thou this from thy heart? Nurse. And from my soul too; else beshrew them both. Jul. Amen! Nurse. What? Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell, To make confession and to be absolv'd. Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. Exit. Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath prais'd him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor! Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I'll to the friar to know his remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die. Exit. ACT IV. Scene I. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] and County Paris. Friar. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. Par. My father Capulet will have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Friar. You say you do not know the lady's mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not. Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I little talk'd of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste. Friar. [aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd. - Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. Par. Happily met, my lady and my wife! Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. Jul. What must be shall be. Friar. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father? Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that, For it was bad enough before their spite. Par. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast sland'red it. Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I should disturb devotion! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit. Jul. O, shut the door!

and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help! Friar. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this County. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise And with this knife I'll help it presently. God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time, Give me some present counsel; or, behold, 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Friar. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this shame, That cop'st with death himself to scape from it; And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy. Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears, Or shut me nightly in a charnel house, O'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud- Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble- And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Friar. Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow. To-morrow night look that thou lie alone; Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off; When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease; No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall Like death when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, depriv'd of supple government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death; And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes uncovered on the bier Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; And hither shall he come; and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in the acting it. Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! Friar. Hold! Get you gone, be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I'll send a friar with speed To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's house. Enter Father Capulet, Mother, Nurse, and Servingmen, two or three. Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ. [Exit a Servingman. ] Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if they can lick their fingers. Cap. How canst thou try them so? Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Cap. Go, begone. Exit Servingman. We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence? Nurse. Ay, forsooth. Cap. Well, be may chance to do some good on her. A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is. Enter Juliet. Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with merry look. Cap. How now, my headstrong? Where have you been gadding? Jul. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests, and am enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you! Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you. Cap. Send for the County. Go tell him of this. I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Cap. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up. This is as't should be. Let me see the County. Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar, All our whole city is much bound to him. Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? Mother. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough. Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church to-morrow. Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. Mother. We shall be short in our provision. 'Tis now near night. Cap. Tush, I will stir about, And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her. I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone. I'll play the housewife for this once. What, ho! They are all forth; well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light, Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd. Exeunt. Scene III. Juliet's chamber. Enter Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin. Enter Mother. Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? Jul. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries As are behooffull for our state to-morrow. So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you; For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden business. Mother. Good night. Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. Exeunt [Mother and Nurse. ] Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse! - What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Lays down a dagger. What if it be a poison which the friar Subtilly hath minist'red to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? There's a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place- As in a vault, an ancient receptacle Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort- Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking- what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad- O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers' joints, And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud. , And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone As with a club dash out my desp'rate brains? O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. She [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains. Scene IV. Capulet's house. Enter Lady of the House and Nurse. Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Old Capulet. Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd, The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock. Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica; Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed! Faith, you'll be sick to-morrow For this night's watching. Cap. No, not a whit. What, I have watch'd ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. Lady. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such watching now. Exeunt Lady and Nurse. Cap. A jealous hood, a jealous hood! Enter three or four [Fellows, with spits and logs and baskets. What is there? Now, fellow, Fellow. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.

Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit Fellow. ] Sirrah, fetch drier logs. Call Peter; he will show thee where they are. Fellow. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs And never trouble Peter for the matter. Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! Thou shalt be loggerhead. [Exit Fellow. ] Good faith, 'tis day. The County will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. Play music. I hear him near. Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say! Enter Nurse. Go waken Juliet; go and trim her up. I'll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste, Make haste! The bridegroom he is come already: Make haste, I say. [Exeunt. ]Scene V. Juliet's chamber. [Enter Nurse. ] Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb! why, lady! Fie, you slug-abed! Why, love, I say! madam! sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now! Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest That you shall rest but little. God forgive me! Marry, and amen. How sound is she asleep! I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, let the County take you in your bed! He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be? [Draws aside the curtains. ] What, dress'd, and in your clothes, and down again? I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady's dead! O weraday that ever I was born! Some aqua-vitae, ho! My lord! my lady! Enter Mother. Mother. What noise is here? Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. What is the matter? Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day! Mother. O me, O me! My child, my only life! Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! Call help. Enter Father. Father. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd; she's dead! Alack the day! Mother. Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead! Cap. Ha! let me see her. Out alas! she's cold, Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. O woful time! Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. Enter Friar [Laurence] and the County [Paris], with Musicians. Friar. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? Cap. Ready to go, but never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath Death lain with thy wife. See, there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death's. Par. Have I thought long to see this morning's face, And doth it give me such a sight as this? Mother. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Most miserable hour that e'er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight! Nurse. O woe? O woful, woful, woful day! Most lamentable day, most woful day That ever ever I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this. O woful day! O woful day! Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! Most detestable Death, by thee beguil'd, By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! O love! O life! not life, but love in death Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd! Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now To murther, murther our solemnity? O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! Dead art thou, dead! alack, my child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried! Friar. Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion's cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid! now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd; And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so ill That you run mad, seeing that she is well. She's not well married that lives married long, But she's best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, In all her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. Cap. All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all things change them to the contrary. Friar. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris. Every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will. Exeunt. Manent Musicians [and Nurse]. 1. Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up! For well you know this is a pitiful case. [Exit. ] 1. Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. Enter Peter. Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'! O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease. ' 1. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'', Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is full of woe. ' O, play me some merry dump to comfort me. 1. Mus. Not a dump we!

'Tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not then? 1. Mus. No. Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 1. Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the minstrel. 1. Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you note me? 1. Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. 2. Mus. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. 'When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound'- Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'? What say you, Simon Catling? 1. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck? 2. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost? 3. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer. I will say for you. It is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no gold for sounding. 'Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress. ' [Exit. 1. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same? 2. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. Exeunt. ACT V. Scene I. Mantua. A street. Enter Romeo. Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead (Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think! ) And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips That I reviv'd and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, When but love's shadows are so rich in joy! Enter Romeo's Man Balthasar, booted. News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again, For nothing can be ill if she be well. Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault And presently took post to tell it you. O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Rom. Is it e'en so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou knowest my lodging. Get me ink and paper And hire posthorses. I will hence to-night. Man. I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild and do import Some misadventure. Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd. Leave me and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Man. No, my good lord. Rom. No matter. Get thee gone And hire those horses. I'll be with thee straight. Exit [Balthasar]. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. Let's see for means. O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men! I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, 'An if a man did need a poison now Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him. ' O, this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary! Enter Apothecary. Apoth. Who calls so loud? Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker mall fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath As violently as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Apoth. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Is death to any he that utters them. Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness And fearest to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back: The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law; The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this. Apoth. My poverty but not my will consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty and not thy will. Apoth. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off, and if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold- worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murther in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee. Exeunt. Scene II. Verona. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar John to Friar Laurence. John. Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho! Enter Friar Laurence. Laur. This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. John. Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate me Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth, So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Laur. Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo? John. I could not send it- here it is again- Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. Laur. Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood, The letter was not nice, but full of charge, Of dear import; and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence, Get me an iron crow and bring it straight Unto my cell. John. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Exit. Laur. Now, must I to the monument alone. Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will beshrew me much that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come- Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb! Exit. Scene III. Verona. A churchyard; in it the monument of the Capulets.

Enter Paris and his Page with flowers and [a torch]. Par. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. Under yond yew tree lay thee all along, Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground. So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread (Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves) But thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me, As signal that thou hear'st something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. Page. [aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. [Retires. ] Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew (O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones) Which with sweet water nightly I will dew; Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans. The obsequies that I for thee will keep Nightly shall be to strew, thy grave and weep. Whistle Boy. The boy gives warning something doth approach. What cursed foot wanders this way to-night To cross my obsequies and true love's rite? What, with a torch? Muffle me, night, awhile. [Retires. ] Enter Romeo, and Balthasar with a torch, a mattock, and a crow of iron. Rom. Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee, Whate'er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof And do not interrupt me in my course. Why I descend into this bed of death Is partly to behold my lady's face, But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger A precious ring- a ring that I must use In dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone. But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I farther shall intend to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that. Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow. Bal. [aside] For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout. His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [Retires. ] Rom. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, And in despite I'll cram thee with more food. Romeo opens the tomb. Par. This is that banish'd haughty Montague That murd'red my love's cousin- with which grief It is supposed the fair creature died- And here is come to do some villanous shame To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague! Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey, and go with me; for thou must die. Rom. I must indeed; and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a desp'rate man. Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone; Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, But not another sin upon my head By urging me to fury. O, be gone! By heaven, I love thee better than myself, For I come hither arm'd against myself. Stay not, be gone. Live, and hereafter say A madman's mercy bid thee run away. Par. I do defy thy, conjuration And apprehend thee for a felon here. Rom. Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy! They fight. Page. O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch. [Exit. Paris falls. ] Par. O, I am slain! If thou be merciful, Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [Dies. ] Rom. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face. Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man when my betossed soul Did not attend him as we rode? I think He told me Paris should have married Juliet. Said he not so? or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet To think it was so? O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune's book! I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave. A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd. [Lays him in the tomb. ] How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death. O, how may I Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquer'd. Beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there. Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? O, what more favour can I do to thee Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy? Forgive me, cousin. ' Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe That unsubstantial Death is amorous, And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that I still will stay with thee And never from this palace of dim night Depart again. Here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death! Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavoury guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on The dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark! Here's to my love! [Drinks. ] O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. Falls. Enter Friar [Laurence], with lanthorn, crow, and spade. Friar. Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who's there? Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well. Friar. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend, What torch is yond that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern, It burneth in the Capels' monument. Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master, One that you love. Friar. Who is it? Bal. Romeo. Friar. How long hath he been there? Bal. Full half an hour. Friar. Go with me to the vault. Bal. I dare not, sir. My master knows not but I am gone hence, And fearfully did menace me with death If I did stay to look on his intents. Friar. Stay then; I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me. O, much I fear some ill unthrifty thing. Bal. As I did sleep under this yew tree here, I dreamt my master and another fought, And that my master slew him. Friar. Romeo! Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour'd by this place of peace? [Enters the tomb. ] Romeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too? And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance! The lady stirs. Juliet rises. Jul. O comfortable friar! where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, And there I am. Where is my Romeo? Friar. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. A greater power than we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead; And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming. Come, go, good Juliet.

I dare no longer stay. Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. Exit [Friar]. What's here? A cup, clos'd in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop To help me after? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him. ] Thy lips are warm! Chief Watch. [within] Lead, boy. Which way? Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger! [Snatches Romeo's dagger. ] This is thy sheath; there rest, and let me die. She stabs herself and falls [on Romeo's body]. Enter [Paris's] Boy and Watch. Boy. This is the place. There, where the torch doth burn. Chief Watch. 'the ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard. Go, some of you; whoe'er you find attach. [Exeunt some of the Watch. ] Pitiful sight! here lies the County slain; And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain this two days buried. Go, tell the Prince; run to the Capulets; Raise up the Montagues; some others search. [Exeunt others of the Watch. ] We see the ground whereon these woes do lie, But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry. Enter [some of the Watch,] with Romeo's Man [Balthasar]. 2. Watch. Here's Romeo's man. We found him in the churchyard. Chief Watch. Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither. Enter Friar [Laurence] and another Watchman. 3. Watch. Here is a friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps. We took this mattock and this spade from him As he was coming from this churchyard side. Chief Watch. A great suspicion! Stay the friar too. Enter the Prince [and Attendants]. Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning rest? Enter Capulet and his Wife [with others]. Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad? Wife. The people in the street cry 'Romeo,' Some 'Juliet,' and some 'Paris'; and all run, With open outcry, toward our monument. Prince. What fear is this which startles in our ears? Chief Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain; And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new kill'd. Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. Chief Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man, With instruments upon them fit to open These dead men's tombs. Cap. O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds! This dagger hath mista'en, for, lo, his house Is empty on the back of Montague, And it missheathed in my daughter's bosom! Wife. O me! this sight of death is as a bell That warns my old age to a sepulchre. Enter Montague [and others]. Prince. Come, Montague; for thou art early up To see thy son and heir more early down. Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night! Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath. What further woe conspires against mine age? Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. Mon. O thou untaught! what manners is in this, To press before thy father to a grave? Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, Till we can clear these ambiguities And know their spring, their head, their true descent; And then will I be general of your woes And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear, And let mischance be slave to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion. Friar. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murther; And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excus'd. Prince. Then say it once what thou dost know in this. Friar. I will be brief, for my short date of breath Is not so long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife. I married them; and their stol'n marriage day Was Tybalt's doomsday, whose untimely death Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city; For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin'd. You, to remove that siege of grief from her, Betroth'd and would have married her perforce To County Paris. Then comes she to me And with wild looks bid me devise some mean To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her (so tutored by my art) A sleeping potion; which so took effect As I intended, for it wrought on her The form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo That he should hither come as this dire night To help to take her from her borrowed grave, Being the time the potion's force should cease. But he which bore my letter, Friar John, Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight Return'd my letter back. Then all alone At the prefixed hour of her waking Came I to take her from her kindred's vault; Meaning to keep her closely at my cell Till I conveniently could send to Romeo. But when I came, some minute ere the time Of her awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. She wakes; and I entreated her come forth And bear this work of heaven with patience; But then a noise did scare me from the tomb, And she, too desperate, would not go with me, But, as it seems, did violence on herself. All this I know, and to the marriage Her nurse is privy; and if aught in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrific'd, some hour before his time, Unto the rigour of severest law. Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. Where's Romeo's man? What can he say in this? Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet's death; And then in post he came from Mantua To this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father, And threat'ned me with death, going in the vault, If I departed not and left him there. Prince. Give me the letter. I will look on it. Where is the County's page that rais'd the watch? Sirrah, what made your master in this place? Boy. He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave; And bid me stand aloof, and so I did. Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb; And by-and-by my master drew on him; And then I ran away to call the watch. Prince. This letter doth make good the friar's words, Their course of love, the tidings of her death; And here he writes that he did buy a poison Of a poor pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montage, See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at you, discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish'd. Cap. O brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter's jointure, for no more Can I demand. Mon. But I can give thee more; For I will raise her Statue in pure gold, That whiles Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie- Poor sacrifices of our enmity! Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished; For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. Exeunt omnes. THE ENDEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ******** This file should be named 1112. txt or 1112. zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www. gutenberg. org/1/1/1/1112/Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed. 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Project Gutenberg Etext of As You Like It by ShakespearePG has multiple editions of William Shakespeare's Complete WorksCopyright 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. Do not remove this. **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts****Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971***These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, andfurther information is included below. We need your donations. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver. 04. 29. 93*END*This etext was prepared by the PG Shakespeare Team,a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers. AS YOU LIKE ITby William ShakespearePersons represented. DUKE, living in exile. FREDERICK, Brother to the Duke, and Usurper of his Dominions. AMIENS, Lord attending on the Duke in his Banishment. JAQUES, Lord attending on the Duke in his Banishment. LE BEAU, a Courtier attending upon Frederick. CHARLES, his Wrestler. OLIVER, Son of Sir Rowland de Bois. JAQUES, Son of Sir Rowland de Bois.

ORLANDO, Son of Sir Rowland de Bois. ADAM, Servant to Oliver. DENNIS, Servant to Oliver. TOUCHSTONE, a Clown. SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a Vicar. CORIN, Shepherd. SILVIUS, Shepherd. WILLIAM, a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey. A person representing HYMEN. ROSALIND, Daughter to the banished Duke. CELIA, Daughter to Frederick. PHEBE, a Shepherdess. AUDREY, a Country Wench. Lords belonging to the two Dukes; Pages, Foresters, and otherAttendants. The SCENE lies first near OLIVER'S house; afterwards partly inthe Usurper's court and partly in the Forest of Arden. ACT I. SCENE I. An Orchard near OLIVER'S house. [Enter ORLANDO and ADAM. ]ORLANDO. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion,--bequeathed me bywill but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged mybrother, on his blessing, to breed me well: and there begins mysadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaksgoldenly of his profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically athome, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept:for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth thatdiffers not from the stalling of an ox? His horses are bredbetter; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, theyare taught their manage, and to that end riders dearlyhired; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth;for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much bound tohim as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully gives me,the something that nature gave me, his countenance seems to takefrom me: he lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of abrother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility withmy education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spiritof my father, which I think is within me, begins to mutinyagainst this servitude; I will no longer endure it, though yet Iknow no wise remedy how to avoid it. ADAM. Yonder comes my master, your brother. ORLANDO. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up. [ADAM retires][Enter OLIVER. ]OLIVER. Now, sir! what make you here? ORLANDO. Nothing: I am not taught to make anything. OLIVER. What mar you then, sir? ORLANDO. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, apoor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness. OLIVER. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught awhile. ORLANDO. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? Whatprodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such penury? OLIVER. Know you where you are, sir? ORLANDO. O, sir, very well: here in your orchard. OLIVER. Know you before whom, sir? ORLANDO. Ay, better than him I am before knows me. I know you aremy eldest brother: and in the gentle condition of blood, youshould so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my betterin that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes notaway my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us: I have asmuch of my father in me as you, albeit; I confess, your comingbefore me is nearer to his reverence. OLIVER. What, boy! ORLANDO. Come, come, elder brother, you are too young in this. OLIVER. Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain? ORLANDO. I am no villain: I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland deBois: he was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says sucha father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would nottake this hand from thy throat till this other had pulled outthy tongue for saying so: thou has railed on thyself. ADAM. [Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for yourfather's remembrance, be at accord. OLIVER. Let me go, I say. ORLANDO. I will not, till I please: you shall hear me. My fathercharged you in his will to give me good education: you havetrained me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me allgentleman-like qualities: the spirit of my father grows strong inme, and I will no longer endure it: therefore, allow me suchexercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poorallottery my father left me by testament; with that I will gobuy my fortunes. OLIVER. And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is spent? Well, sir,get you in; I will not long be troubled with you: you shallhave some part of your will: I pray you leave me. ORLANDO. I no further offend you than becomes me for my good. OLIVER. Get you with him, you old dog. ADAM. Is "old dog" my reward? Most true, I have lost my teeth inyour service. --God be with my old master! he would not havespoke such a word. [Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM. ]OLIVER. Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I will physicyour rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla, Dennis! [Enter DENNIS. ]DENNIS. Calls your worship? OLIVER. Was not Charles, the duke's wrestler, here to speak with me? DENNIS. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access toyou. OLIVER. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS. ]--'Twill be a good way; and to-morrow the wrestling is. [Enter CHARLES. ]CHARLES. Good morrow to your worship. OLIVER. Good Monsieur Charles! --what's the new news at the new court? CHARLES. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; thatis, the old duke is banished by his younger brother the new duke;and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntaryexile with him, whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke;therefore he gives them good leave to wander. OLIVER. Can you tell if Rosalind, the duke's daughter, be banishedwith her father? CHARLES. O, no; for the duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her,--beingever from their cradles bred together,--that she would havefollowed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is atthe court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his owndaughter; and never two ladies loved as they do. OLIVER. Where will the old duke live? CHARLES. They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a manymerry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hoodof England: they say many young gentlemen flock to him every day,and fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world. OLIVER. What, you wrestle to-morrow before the new duke? CHARLES. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you with a matter. I amgiven, sir, secretly to understand that your younger brother,Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against me totry a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit;and he that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit himwell. Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, Iwould be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if hecome in: therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither toacquaint you withal; that either you might stay him from hisintendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into; inthat it is thing of his own search, and altogether against mywill.

OLIVER. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shaltfind I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of mybrother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured todissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee,Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full ofambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secretand villainous contriver against me his natural brother:therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break hisneck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thoudost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily gracehimself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrapthee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till hehath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other: for, Iassure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not oneso young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherlyof him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I mustblush and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder. CHARLES. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he cometo-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone againI'll never wrestle for prize more: and so, God keep your worship! [Exit. ]OLIVER. Farewell, good Charles. --Now will I stir this gamester: Ihope I shall see an end of him: for my soul, yet I know notwhy, hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never schooledand yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantinglybeloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, andespecially of my own people, who best know him, that I amaltogether misprised: but it shall not be so long; thiswrestler shall clear all: nothing remains but that I kindle theboy thither, which now I'll go about. [Exit. ]SCENE II. A Lawn before the DUKE'S Palace. [Enter ROSALIND and CELIA. ]CELIA. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry. ROSALIND. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and wouldyou yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget abanished father, you must not learn me how to remember anyextraordinary pleasure. CELIA. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that Ilove thee; if my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thyuncle, the duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me,I could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; sowouldst thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteouslytempered as mine is to thee. ROSALIND. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to rejoice inyours. CELIA. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like tohave; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir: for whathe hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render theeagain in affection: by mine honour, I will; and when I break thatoath, let me turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dearRose, be merry. ROSALIND. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports: let me see; whatthink you of falling in love? CELIA. Marry, I pr'ythee, do, to make sport withal: but love no manin good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than withsafety of a pure blush thou mayst in honour come off again. ROSALIND. What shall be our sport, then? CELIA. Let us sit and mock the good housewife Fortune from herwheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally. ROSALIND. I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightilymisplaced: and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake inher gifts to women. CELIA. 'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makeshonest; and those that she makes honest she makes veryill-favouredly. ROSALIND. Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's: Fortunereigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of Nature. CELIA. No; when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not byFortune fall into the fire? --Though Nature hath given us wit toflout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut offthe argument? [Enter TOUCHSTONE. ]ROSALIND. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, whenFortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit. CELIA. Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, butNature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason ofsuch goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone: foralways the dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits. --How now, wit? whither wander you? TOUCHSTONE. Mistress, you must come away to your father. CELIA. Were you made the messenger? TOUCHSTONE. No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come for you. ROSALIND. Where learned you that oath, fool? TOUCHSTONE. Of a certain knight that swore by his honour they weregood pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught:now, I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and themustard was good: and yet was not the knight forsworn. CELIA. How prove you that, in the great heap of your knowledge? ROSALIND. Ay, marry; now unmuzzle your wisdom. TOUCHSTONE. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins, and swearby your beards that I am a knave. CELIA. By our beards, if we had them, thou art. TOUCHSTONE. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were: but if you swear by thatthat is not, you are not forsworn: no more was this knight,swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he had, hehad sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or thatmustard. CELIA. Pr'ythee, who is't that thou mean'st? TOUCHSTONE. One that old Frederick, your father, loves. CELIA. My father's love is enough to honour him enough: speakno more of him: you'll be whipp'd for taxation one of these days. TOUCHSTONE. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely whatwise men do foolishly. CELIA. By my troth, thou sayest true: for since the little wit thatfools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise menhave makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau. ROSALIND. With his mouth full of news. CELIA. Which he will put on us as pigeons feed their young. ROSALIND. Then shall we be news-crammed. CELIA. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. [Enter LE BEAU. ]Bon jour, Monsieur Le Beau. What's the news? LE BEAU. Fair princess, you have lost much good sport. CELIA. Sport! of what colour? LE BEAU. What colour, madam? How shall I answer you? ROSALIND. As wit and fortune will. TOUCHSTONE. Or as the destinies decrees. CELIA. Well said: that was laid on with a trowel. TOUCHSTONE. Nay, if I keep not my rank,--ROSALIND. Thou losest thy old smell. LE BEAU. You amaze me, ladies; I would have told you of goodwrestling, which you have lost the sight of. ROSALIND. Yet tell us the manner of the wrestling. LE BEAU. I will tell you the beginning, and, if it please yourladyships, you may see the end; for the best is yet to do;and here, where you are, they are coming to perform it. CELIA. Well,--the beginning, that is dead and buried. LE BEAU. There comes an old man and his three sons,--CELIA. I could match this beginning with an old tale.

LE BEAU. Three proper young men, of excellent growth and presence, withbills on their necks,--ROSALIND. 'Be it known unto all men by these presents,'--LE BEAU. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the duke'swrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three ofhis ribs, that there is little hope of life in him: so he servedthe second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man,their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all thebeholders take his part with weeping. ROSALIND. Alas! TOUCHSTONE. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have lost? LE BEAU. Why, this that I speak of. TOUCHSTONE. Thus men may grow wiser every day! It is the first timethat ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies. CELIA. Or I, I promise thee. ROSALIND. But is there any else longs to see this broken musicin his sides? is there yet another dotes upon rib-breaking? --Shall we see this wrestling, cousin? LE BEAU. You must, if you stay here: for here is the placeappointed for the wrestling, and they are ready to perform it. CELIA. Yonder, sure, they are coming: let us now stay and see it. [Flourish. Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, ORLANDO, CHARLES, andAttendants. ]DUKE FREDERICK. Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own peril onhis forwardness. ROSALIND. Is yonder the man? LE BEAU. Even he, madam. CELIA. Alas, he is too young: yet he looks successfully. DUKE FREDERICK. How now, daughter and cousin? are you crept hither to see thewrestling? ROSALIND. Ay, my liege; so please you give us leave. DUKE FREDERICK. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,there is such odds in the men. In pity of the challenger's youthI would fain dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you can move him. CELIA. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. DUKE FREDERICK. Do so; I'll not be by. [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart. ]LE BEAU. Monsieur the challenger, the princesses call for you. ORLANDO. I attend them with all respect and duty. ROSALIND. Young man, have you challenged Charles the wrestler? ORLANDO. No, fair princess; he is the general challenger: I comebut in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my youth. CELIA. Young gentleman, your spirits are too bold for your years. You have seen cruel proof of this man's strength: if you sawyourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment,the fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equalenterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace yourown safety and give over this attempt. ROSALIND. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore bemisprised: we will make it our suit to the duke that thewrestling might not go forward. ORLANDO. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts: wherein Iconfess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent ladiesanything. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes gowith me to my trial: wherein if I be foiled there is but oneshamed that was never gracious; if killed, but one dead that iswilling to be so: I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have noneto lament me: the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; onlyin the world I fill up a place, which may be better suppliedwhen I have made it empty. ROSALIND. The little strength that I have, I would it were with you. CELIA. And mine to eke out hers. ROSALIND. Fare you well. Pray heaven, I be deceived in you! CELIA. Your heart's desires be with you. CHARLES. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirousto lie with his mother earth? ORLANDO. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working. DUKE FREDERICK. You shall try but one fall. CHARLES. No; I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat him toa second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first. ORLANDO. You mean to mock me after; you should not have mocked me before;but come your ways. ROSALIND. Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man! CELIA. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong fellow by the leg. [CHARLES and ORLANDO wrestle. ]ROSALIND. O excellent young man! CELIA. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down. [CHARLES is thrown. Shout. ]DUKE FREDERICK. No more, no more. ORLANDO. Yes, I beseech your grace; I am not yet well breathed. DUKE FREDERICK. How dost thou, Charles? LE BEAU. He cannot speak, my lord. DUKE FREDERICK. Bear him away. [CHARLES is borne out. ]What is thy name, young man? ORLANDO. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Bois. DUKE FREDERICK. I would thou hadst been son to some man else. The world esteem'd thy father honourable,But I did find him still mine enemy:Thou shouldst have better pleas'd me with this deedHadst thou descended from another house. But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth;I would thou hadst told me of another father. [Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK, Train, and LE BEAU. ]CELIA. Were I my father, coz, would I do this? ORLANDO. I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son,His youngest son;--and would not change that callingTo be adopted heir to Frederick. ROSALIND. My father loved Sir Rowland as his soul,And all the world was of my father's mind:Had I before known this young man his son,I should have given him tears unto entreatiesEre he should thus have ventur'd. CELIA. Gentle cousin,Let us go thank him, and encourage him:My father's rough and envious dispositionSticks me at heart. --Sir, you have well deserv'd:If you do keep your promises in loveBut justly, as you have exceeded promise,Your mistress shall be happy. ROSALIND.

Gentleman,[Giving him a chain from her neck. ]Wear this for me; one out of suits with fortune,That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. --Shall we go, coz? CELIA. Ay. --Fare you well, fair gentleman. ORLANDO. Can I not say, I thank you? My better partsAre all thrown down; and that which here stands upIs but a quintain, a mere lifeless block. ROSALIND. He calls us back: my pride fell with my fortunes:I'll ask him what he would. --Did you call, sir? --Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrownMore than your enemies. CELIA. Will you go, coz? ROSALIND. Have with you. --Fare you well. [Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA. ]ORLANDO. What passion hangs these weights upon my tongue? I cannot speak to her, yet she urg'd conference. O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown:Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee. [Re-enter LE BEAU. ]LE BEAU. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel youTo leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'dHigh commendation, true applause, and love,Yet such is now the duke's condition,That he misconstrues all that you have done. The Duke is humorous; what he is, indeed,More suits you to conceive than I to speak of. ORLANDO. I thank you, sir: and pray you tell me this;Which of the two was daughter of the dukeThat here was at the wrestling? LE BEAU. Neither his daughter, if we judge by manners;But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter:The other is daughter to the banish'd duke,And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,To keep his daughter company; whose lovesAre dearer than the natural bond of sisters. But I can tell you that of late this dukeHath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,Grounded upon no other argumentBut that the people praise her for her virtuesAnd pity her for her good father's sake;And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the ladyWill suddenly break forth. --Sir, fare you well! Hereafter, in a better world than this,I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. ORLANDO. I rest much bounden to you: fare you well! [Exit LE BEAU. ]Thus must I from the smoke into the smother;From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother:--But heavenly Rosalind! [Exit. ]SCENE III. A Room in the Palace. [Enter CELIA and ROSALIND. ]CELIA. Why, cousin; why, Rosalind;--Cupid have mercy! --Not a word? ROSALIND. Not one to throw at a dog. CELIA. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs, throwsome of them at me; come, lame me with reasons. ROSALIND. Then there were two cousins laid up; when the one shouldbe lamed with reasons and the other mad without any. CELIA. But is all this for your father? ROSALIND. No, some of it is for my child's father. O, how fullof briers is this working-day world! CELIA. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holidayfoolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our verypetticoats will catch them. ROSALIND. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my heart. CELIA. Hem them away. ROSALIND. I would try, if I could cry hem and have him. CELIA. Come, come, wrestle with thy affections. ROSALIND. O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself. CELIA. O, a good wish upon you! you will try in time, in despite ofa fall. --But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk ingood earnest: is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fallinto so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son? ROSALIND. The duke my father loved his father dearly. CELIA. Doth it therefore ensue that you should love his son dearly? By this kind of chase I should hate him, for my father hatedhis father dearly; yet I hate not Orlando. ROSALIND. No, 'faith, hate him not, for my sake. CELIA. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well? ROSALIND. Let me love him for that; and do you love him becauseI do. --Look, here comes the duke. CELIA. With his eyes full of anger. [Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with Lords. ]DUKE FREDERICK. Mistress, despatch you with your safest haste,And get you from our court. ROSALIND. Me, uncle? DUKE FREDERICK. You, cousin:Within these ten days if that thou be'st foundSo near our public court as twenty miles,Thou diest for it. ROSALIND. I do beseech your grace,Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me:If with myself I hold intelligence,Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,--As I do trust I am not,--then, dear uncle,Never so much as in a thought unbornDid I offend your highness. DUKE FREDERICK. Thus do all traitors;If their purgation did consist in words,They are as innocent as grace itself:--Let it suffice thee that I trust thee not. ROSALIND. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor:Tell me whereon the likelihood depends. DUKE FREDERICK. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's enough. ROSALIND. So was I when your highness took his dukedom;So was I when your highness banish'd him:Treason is not inherited, my lord:Or, if we did derive it from our friends,What's that to me? my father was no traitor! Then, good my liege, mistake me not so muchTo think my poverty is treacherous. CELIA. Dear sovereign, hear me speak. DUKE FREDERICK. Ay, Celia: we stay'd her for your sake,Else had she with her father rang'd along. CELIA. I did not then entreat to have her stay;It was your pleasure, and your own remorse:I was too young that time to value her;But now I know her: if she be a traitor,Why so am I: we still have slept together,Rose at an instant, learn'd, play'd, eat together;And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans,Still we went coupled and inseparable. DUKE FREDERICK. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,Her very silence, and her patienceSpeak to the people, and they pity her. Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name;And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuousWhen she is gone: then open not thy lips;Firm and irrevocable is my doomWhich I have pass'd upon her;--she is banish'd. CELIA. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege:I cannot live out of her company. DUKE FREDERICK. You are a fool. --You, niece, provide yourself:If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,And in the greatness of my word, you die. [Exeunt DUKE FREDERICK and Lords. ]CELIA.

O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go? Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine. I charge thee be not thou more griev'd than I am. ROSALIND. I have more cause. CELIA. Thou hast not, cousin;Pr'ythee be cheerful: know'st thou not the dukeHath banish'd me, his daughter? ROSALIND. That he hath not. CELIA. No! hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the loveWhich teacheth thee that thou and I am one:Shall we be sund'red? shall we part, sweet girl? No; let my father seek another heir. Therefore devise with me how we may fly,Whither to go, and what to bear with us:And do not seek to take your charge upon you,To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,Say what thou canst, I'll go along with thee. ROSALIND. Why, whither shall we go? CELIA. To seek my uncle in the Forest of Arden. ROSALIND. Alas! what danger will it be to us,Maids as we are, to travel forth so far? Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold. CELIA. I'll put myself in poor and mean attire,And with a kind of umber smirch my face;The like do you; so shall we pass along,And never stir assailants. ROSALIND. Were it not better,Because that I am more than common tall,That I did suit me all points like a man? A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,A boar spear in my hand; and,--in my heartLie there what hidden woman's fear there will,--We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,As many other mannish cowards haveThat do outface it with their semblances. CELIA. What shall I call thee when thou art a man? ROSALIND. I'll have no worse a name than Jove's own page,And, therefore, look you call me Ganymede. But what will you be call'd? CELIA. Something that hath a reference to my state:No longer Celia, but Aliena. ROSALIND. But, cousin, what if we assay'd to stealThe clownish fool out of your father's court? Would he not be a comfort to our travel? CELIA. He'll go along o'er the wide world with me;Leave me alone to woo him. Let's away,And get our jewels and our wealth together;Devise the fittest time and safest wayTo hide us from pursuit that will be madeAfter my flight. Now go we in contentTo liberty, and not to banishment. [Exeunt. ]ACT II. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden. [Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other LORDS, in the dress offoresters. ]DUKE SENIOR. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,Hath not old custom made this life more sweetThan that of painted pomp? Are not these woodsMore free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,--The seasons' difference: as the icy fangAnd churlish chiding of the winter's wind,Which when it bites and blows upon my body,Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,'This is no flattery: these are counsellorsThat feelingly persuade me what I am. 'Sweet are the uses of adversity;Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything. I would not change it. AMIENS. Happy is your grace,That can translate the stubbornness of fortuneInto so quiet and so sweet a style. DUKE SENIOR. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,Being native burghers of this desert city,Should, in their own confines, with forked headsHave their round haunches gor'd. FIRST LORD. Indeed, my lord,The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;And, in that kind, swears you do more usurpThan doth your brother that hath banish'd you. To-day my lord of Amiens and myselfDid steal behind him as he lay alongUnder an oak, whose antique root peeps outUpon the brook that brawls along this wood:To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt,Did come to languish; and, indeed, my lord,The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans,That their discharge did stretch his leathern coatAlmost to bursting; and the big round tearsCours'd one another down his innocent noseIn piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool,Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,Augmenting it with tears. DUKE SENIOR. But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle? FIRST LORD. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream;'Poor deer,' quoth he 'thou mak'st a testamentAs worldlings do, giving thy sum of moreTo that which had too much:' then, being there alone,Left and abandoned of his velvet friends;''Tis right'; quoth he; 'thus misery doth partThe flux of company:' anon, a careless herd,Full of the pasture, jumps along by himAnd never stays to greet him; 'Ay,' quoth Jaques,'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;'Tis just the fashion; wherefore do you lookUpon that poor and broken bankrupt there? 'Thus most invectively he pierceth throughThe body of the country, city, court,Yea, and of this our life: swearing that weAre mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,To fright the animals, and to kill them upIn their assign'd and native dwelling-place. DUKE SENIOR. And did you leave him in this contemplation? SECOND LORD. We did, my lord, weeping and commentingUpon the sobbing deer. DUKE SENIOR. Show me the place:I love to cope him in these sullen fits,For then he's full of matter. FIRST LORD. I'll bring you to him straight. [Exeunt. ]SCENE II. A Room in the Palace. [Enter DUKE FREDERICK, Lords, and Attendants. ]DUKE FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them? It cannot be: some villains of my courtAre of consent and sufferance in this. FIRST LORD. I cannot hear of any that did see her. The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,Saw her a-bed; and in the morning earlyThey found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress. SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oftYour grace was wont to laugh, is also missing. Hesperia, the princess' gentlewoman,Confesses that she secretly o'erheardYour daughter and her cousin much commendThe parts and graces of the wrestlerThat did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;And she believes, wherever they are gone,That youth is surely in their company. DUKE FREDERICK. Send to his brother; fetch that gallant hither:If he be absent, bring his brother to me,I'll make him find him: do this suddenly;And let not search and inquisition quailTo bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt. ]SCENE III. Before OLIVER'S House. [Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting. ]ORLANDO. Who's there? ADAM. What, my young master? --O my gentle master! O my sweet master! O you memoryOf old Sir Rowland! why, what make you here? Why are you virtuous? why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcomeThe bonny prizer of the humorous duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. Know you not, master, to some kind of menTheir graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. O, what a world is this, when what is comelyEnvenoms him that bears it! ORLANDO. Why, what's the matter? ADAM. O unhappy youth,Come not within these doors; within this roofThe enemy of all your graces lives:Your brother,--no, no brother; yet the son--Yet not the son; I will not call him son--Of him I was about to call his father,--Hath heard your praises; and this night he meansTo burn the lodging where you use to lie,And you within it: if he fail of that,He will have other means to cut you off;I overheard him and his practices. This is no place; this house is but a butchery:Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it. ORLANDO. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go? ADAM. No matter whither, so you come not here. ORLANDO.

What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food? Or with a base and boisterous sword enforceA thievish living on the common road? This I must do, or know not what to do:Yet this I will not do, do how I can:I rather will subject me to the maliceOf a diverted blood and bloody brother. ADAM. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,Which I did store to be my foster-nurse,When service should in my old limbs lie lame,And unregarded age in corners thrown;Take that: and He that doth the ravens feed,Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold;All this I give you. Let me be your servant;Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty:For in my youth I never did applyHot and rebellious liquors in my blood;Nor did not with unbashful forehead wooThe means of weakness and debility;Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,Frosty, but kindly: let me go with you;I'll do the service of a younger manIn all your business and necessities. ORLANDO. O good old man; how well in thee appearsThe constant service of the antique world,When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times,Where none will sweat but for promotion;And having that, do choke their service upEven with the having: it is not so with thee. But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,That cannot so much as a blossom yieldIn lieu of all thy pains and husbandry:But come thy ways, we'll go along together;And ere we have thy youthful wages spentWe'll light upon some settled low content. ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow theeTo the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. --From seventeen years till now almost fourscoreHere lived I, but now live here no more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek;But at fourscore it is too late a week:Yet fortune cannot recompense me betterThan to die well and not my master's debtor. [Exeunt. ]SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden. [Enter ROSALIND in boy's clothes, CELIA dressed like ashepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE. ]ROSALIND. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! TOUCHSTONE. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary. ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel,and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, asdoublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat;therefore, courage, good Aliena. CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I can go no further. TOUCHSTONE. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you:yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think youhave no money in your purse. ROSALIND. Well, this is the forest of Arden. TOUCHSTONE. Ay, now am I in Arden: the more fool I; when I was athome I was in a better place; but travellers must be content. ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. --Look you, who comes here? , ayoung man and an old in solemn talk. [Enter CORIN and SILVIUS. ]CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still. SILVIUS. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her! CORIN. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now. SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess;Though in thy youth thou wast as true a loverAs ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow:But if thy love were ever like to mine,--As sure I think did never man love so,--How many actions most ridiculousHast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy? CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten. SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily:If thou remember'st not the slightest follyThat ever love did make thee run into,Thou hast not lov'd:Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,Thou hast not lov'd:Or if thou hast not broke from companyAbruptly, as my passion now makes me,Thou hast not lov'd: O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! [Exit Silvius. ]ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,I have by hard adventure found mine own. TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke mysword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night toJane Smile: and I remember the kissing of her batlet, and thecow's dugs that her pretty chapp'd hands had milk'd: and Iremember the wooing of a peascod instead of her; from whom I tooktwo cods, and giving her them again, said with weeping tears,'Wear these for my sake. ' We that are true lovers run intostrange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all naturein love mortal in folly. ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art 'ware of. TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be 'ware of mine own wit till I break my shinsagainst it. ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passionIs much upon my fashion. TOUCHSTONE. And mine: but it grows something stale with me. CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond manIf he for gold will give us any food:I faint almost to death. TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown! ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy kinsman. CORIN. Who calls? TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir. CORIN. Else are they very wretched. ROSALIND. Peace, I say. --Good even to you, friend. CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all. ROSALIND. I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love or goldCan in this desert place buy entertainment,Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed:Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,And faints for succour. CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her,And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,My fortunes were more able to relieve her:But I am shepherd to another man,And do not shear the fleeces that I graze:My master is of churlish disposition,And little recks to find the way to heavenBy doing deeds of hospitality:Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,By reason of his absence, there is nothingThat you will feed on; but what is, come see,And in my voice most welcome shall you be. ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture? CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,That little cares for buying anything. ROSALIND. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,And thou shalt have to pay for it of us. CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,And willingly could waste my time in it. CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold:Go with me: if you like, upon report,The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,I will your very faithful feeder be,And buy it with your gold right suddenly. [Exeunt. ]SCENE V. Another part of the Forest. [Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and others. ]AMIENS. SONG Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. JAQUES. More, more, I pr'ythee, more. AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. JAQUES. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. I can suck melancholyout of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I pr'ythee, more. AMIENS. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please you. JAQUES. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire you to sing. Come, more: another stanza. Call you them stanzas? AMIENS. What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

JAQUES. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me nothing. Will you sing? AMIENS. More at your request than to please myself. JAQUES. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank you: butthat they call compliment is like the encounter of two dog-apes;and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him apenny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; andyou that will not, hold your tongues. AMIENS. Well, I'll end the song. --Sirs, cover the while: the duke willdrink under this tree:--he hath been all this day to look you. JAQUES. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is toodisputable for my company: I think of as many matters as he;but I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come,warble, come. SONG[All together here. ] Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleas'd with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note that I madeyesterday in despite of my invention. AMIENS. And I'll sing it. JAQUES. Thus it goes: If it do come to pass That any man turn ass, Leaving his wealth and ease A stubborn will to please, Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; Here shall he see Gross fools as he, An if he will come to me. AMIENS. What's that "ducdame? "JAQUES. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'llgo sleep, if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against all thefirst-born of Egypt. AMIENS. And I'll go seek the duke; his banquet is prepared. [Exeunt severally. ]SCENE VI. Another part of the Forest. [Enter ORLANDO and ADAM. ]ADAM. Dear master, I can go no further: O, I die for food! Herelie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. ORLANDO. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in thee? Live alittle; comfort a little; cheer thyself a little. If this uncouthforest yield anything savage, I will either be food for it orbring it for food to thee. Thy conceit is nearer death than thypowers. For my sake be comfortable: hold death awhile at thearm's end: I will here be with thee presently; and if I bringthee not something to eat, I'll give thee leave to die: but ifthou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Wellsaid! thou look'st cheerily: and I'll be with thee quickly. --Yetthou liest in the bleak air: come, I will bear thee to someshelter; and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if therelive anything in this desert. Cheerily, good Adam! [Exeunt. ]SCENE VII. Another part of the Forest. [A table set. Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and others. ]DUKE SENIOR. I think he be transform'd into a beast;For I can nowhere find him like a man. FIRST LORD. My lord, he is but even now gone hence;Here was he merry, hearing of a song. DUKE SENIOR. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,We shall have shortly discord in the spheres. Go, seek him; tell him I would speak with him. FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own approach. [Enter JAQUES. ]DUKE SENIOR. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this,That your poor friends must woo your company? What! you look merrily! JAQUES. A fool, a fool! --I met a fool i' the forest,A motley fool;--a miserable world! --As I do live by food, I met a fool,Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms,In good set terms,--and yet a motley fool. 'Good morrow, fool,' quoth I: 'No, sir,' quoth he,'Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune. 'And then he drew a dial from his poke,And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock:Thus we may see,' quoth he, 'how the world wags;'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine;And after one hour more 'twill be eleven;And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;And thereby hangs a tale. ' When I did hearThe motley fool thus moral on the time,My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,That fools should be so deep contemplative;And I did laugh sans intermissionAn hour by his dial. --O noble fool! A worthy fool! --Motley's the only wear. DUKE SENIOR. What fool is this? JAQUES. O worthy fool! --One that hath been a courtier,And says, if ladies be but young and fair,They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,--Which is as dry as the remainder biscuitAfter a voyage,--he hath strange places cramm'dWith observation, the which he ventsIn mangled forms. -O that I were a fool! I am ambitious for a motley coat. DUKE SENIOR. Thou shalt have one. JAQUES. It is my only suit,Provided that you weed your better judgmentsOf all opinion that grows rank in themThat I am wise. I must have libertyWithal, as large a charter as the wind,To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:And they that are most galled with my folly,They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so? The 'why' is plain as way to parish church:He that a fool doth very wisely hitDoth very foolishly, although he smart,Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,The wise man's folly is anatomiz'dEven by the squandering glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley; give me leaveTo speak my mind, and I will through and throughCleanse the foul body of the infected world,If they will patiently receive my medicine. DUKE SENIOR. Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst do. JAQUES. What, for a counter, would I do but good? DUKE SENIOR. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin;For thou thyself hast been a libertine,As sensual as the brutish sting itself;And all the embossed sores and headed evilsThat thou with license of free foot hast caughtWouldst thou disgorge into the general world. JAQUES. Why, who cries out on prideThat can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,Till that the weary very means do ebb? What woman in the city do I nameWhen that I say, The city-woman bearsThe cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? Who can come in and say that I mean her,When such a one as she, such is her neighbour? Or what is he of basest functionThat says his bravery is not on my cost,--Thinking that I mean him,--but therein suitsHis folly to the metal of my speech? There then; how then? what then? Let me see whereinMy tongue hath wrong'd him: if it do him right,Then he hath wrong'd himself; if he be free,Why then, my taxing like a wild-goose flies,Unclaim'd of any man. --But who comes here? [Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn. ]ORLANDO. Forbear, and eat no more. JAQUES. Why, I have eat none yet. ORLANDO. Nor shalt not, till necessity be serv'd. JAQUES. Of what kind should this cock come of? DUKE SENIOR. Art thou thus bolden'd, man, by thy distress:Or else a rude despiser of good manners,That in civility thou seem'st so empty? ORLANDO.

You touch'd my vein at first: the thorny pointOf bare distress hath ta'en from me the showOf smooth civility: yet am I inland bred,And know some nurture. But forbear, I say;He dies that touches any of this fruitTill I and my affairs are answered. JAQUES. An you will not be answered with reason, I must die. DUKE SENIOR. What would you have? your gentleness shall forceMore than your force move us to gentleness. ORLANDO. I almost die for food, and let me have it. DUKE SENIOR. Sit down and feed, and welcome to our table. ORLANDO. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:I thought that all things had been savage here;And therefore put I on the countenanceOf stern commandment. But whate'er you areThat in this desert inaccessible,Under the shade of melancholy boughs,Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time;If ever you have look'd on better days,If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church,If ever sat at any good man's feast,If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear,And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied,Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword. DUKE SENIOR. True is it that we have seen better days,And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church,And sat at good men's feasts, and wip'd our eyesOf drops that sacred pity hath engender'd:And therefore sit you down in gentleness,And take upon command what help we have,That to your wanting may be minister'd. ORLANDO. Then but forbear your food a little while,Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,And give it food. There is an old poor manWho after me hath many a weary stepLimp'd in pure love: till he be first suffic'd,--Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,--I will not touch a bit. DUKE SENIOR. Go find him out. And we will nothing waste till you return. ORLANDO. I thank ye; and be blest for your good comfort! [Exit. ]DUKE SENIOR. Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy;This wide and universal theatrePresents more woeful pageants than the sceneWherein we play in. JAQUES. All the world's a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances;And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;Then the whining school-boy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws and modern instances;And so he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,That ends this strange eventful history,Is second childishness and mere oblivion;Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. [Re-enter ORLANDO with ADAM. ]DUKE SENIOR. Welcome. Set down your venerable burden,And let him feed. ORLANDO. I thank you most for him. ADAM. So had you need;I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. DUKE SENIOR. Welcome; fall to: I will not trouble youAs yet, to question you about your fortunes. --Give us some music; and, good cousin, sing. [AMIENS sings. ] SONG I. Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. II. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! &c. DUKE SENIOR. If that you were the good Sir Rowland's son,--As you have whisper'd faithfully you were,And as mine eye doth his effigies witnessMost truly limn'd and living in your face,--Be truly welcome hither: I am the dukeThat lov'd your father. The residue of your fortune,Go to my cave and tell me. --Good old man,Thou art right welcome as thy master is;Support him by the arm. --Give me your hand,And let me all your fortunes understand. [Exeunt]ACT III. SCENE I. A Room in the Palace. [Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, Lords and Attendants. ]DUKE FREDERICK. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be:But were I not the better part made mercy,I should not seek an absent argumentOf my revenge, thou present. But look to it:Find out thy brother wheresoe'er he is:Seek him with candle; bring him dead or livingWithin this twelvemonth, or turn thou no moreTo seek a living in our territory. Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thineWorth seizure, do we seize into our hands,Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother's mouthOf what we think against thee. OLIVER. O that your highness knew my heart in this! I never lov'd my brother in my life. DUKE FREDERICK. More villain thou. --Well, push him out of doors,And let my officers of such a natureMake an extent upon his house and lands:Do this expediently, and turn him going. [Exeunt. ]SCENE II. The Forest of Arden. [Enter ORLANDO, with a paper. ]ORLANDO. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love; And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, surveyWith thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above, Thy huntress' name, that my full life doth sway. O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books, And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,That every eye which in this forest looks Shall see thy virtue witness'd every where. Run, run, Orlando; carve on every tree,The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. [Exit. ][Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE. ]CORIN. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master Touchstone? TOUCHSTONE. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a goodlife; but in respect that it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very well; but inrespect that it is private, it is a very vile life. Now inrespect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respectit is not in the court, it is tedious. As it is a spare life,look you, it fits my humour well; but as there is no moreplenty in it, it goes much against my stomach. Hast anyphilosophy in thee, shepherd? CORIN. No more but that I know the more one sickens, the worse atease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, iswithout three good friends; that the property of rain is to wet,and fire to burn; that good pasture makes fat sheep; and that agreat cause of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hathlearned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding,or comes of a very dull kindred. TOUCHSTONE. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast ever in court,shepherd? CORIN. No, truly. TOUCHSTONE. Then thou art damned. CORIN. Nay, I hope,--TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side. CORIN. For not being at court? Your reason. TOUCHSTONE. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou never saw'st goodmanners; if thou never saw'st good manners, then thy manners mustbe wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou artin a parlous state, shepherd. CORIN. Not a whit, Touchstone; those that are good manners at thecourt are as ridiculous in the country as the behaviour of thecountry is most mockable at the court. You told me you salute notat the court, but you kiss your hands; that courtesy would beuncleanly if courtiers were shepherds. TOUCHSTONE. Instance, briefly; come, instance. CORIN. Why, we are still handling our ewes; and their fells,you know, are greasy. TOUCHSTONE.

Why, do not your courtier's hands sweat? and is not thegrease of a mutton as wholesome as the sweat of a man? Shallow, shallow: a better instance, I say; come. CORIN. Besides, our hands are hard. TOUCHSTONE. Your lips will feel them the sooner. Shallow again: a moresounder instance; come. CORIN. And they are often tarred over with the surgery of oursheep; and would you have us kiss tar? The courtier's handsare perfumed with civet. TOUCHSTONE. Most shallow man! thou worm's-meat in respect of a goodpiece of flesh indeed! --Learn of the wise, and perpend: civet isof a baser birth than tar,--the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance, shepherd. CORIN. You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest. TOUCHSTONE. Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee, shallow man! God make incision in thee! thou art raw. CORIN. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat, get that Iwear, owe no man hate, envy no man's happiness, glad of othermen's good, content with my harm; and the greatest of mypride is to see my ewes graze and my lambs suck. TOUCHSTONE. That is another simple sin in you: to bring the ewesand the rams together, and to offer to get your living by thecopulation of cattle; to be bawd to a bell-wether; and to betraya she-lamb of a twelvemonth to crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram,out of all reasonable match. If thou be'st not damned for this,the devil himself will have no shepherds; I cannot see else howthou shouldst 'scape. CORIN. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new mistress's brother. [Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper. ]ROSALIND. 'From the east to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth, being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Rosalind. All the pictures fairest lin'd Are but black to Rosalind. Let no face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalind. 'TOUCHSTONE. I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners, andsuppers, and sleeping hours excepted. It is the rightbutter-women's rank to market. ROSALIND. Out, fool! TOUCHSTONE. For a taste:-- If a hart do lack a hind, Let him seek out Rosalind. If the cat will after kind, So be sure will Rosalind. Winter garments must be lin'd, So must slender Rosalind. They that reap must sheaf and bind,-- Then to cart with Rosalind. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, Such a nut is Rosalind. He that sweetest rose will find Must find love's prick, and Rosalind. This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you infectyourself with them? ROSALIND. Peace, you dull fool! I found them on a tree. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit. ROSALIND. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with amedlar. Then it will be the earliest fruit in the country:for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the rightvirtue of the medlar. TOUCHSTONE. You have said; but whether wisely or no, let the forest judge. [Enter CELIA, reading a paper. ]ROSALIND. Peace! Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside. CELIA. 'Why should this a desert be? For it is unpeopled? No; Tongues I'll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show: Some, how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the streching of a span Buckles in his sum of age. Some, of violated vows 'Twixt the souls of friend and friend; But upon the fairest boughs, Or at every sentence end, Will I Rosalinda write, Teaching all that read to know The quintessence of every sprite Heaven would in little show. Therefore heaven nature charg'd That one body should be fill'd With all graces wide-enlarg'd: Nature presently distill'd Helen's cheek, but not her heart; Cleopatra's majesty; Atalanta's better part; Sad Lucretia's modesty. Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devis'd, Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, To have the touches dearest priz'd. Heaven would that she these gifts should have, And I to live and die her slave. 'ROSALIND. O most gentle Jupiter! --What tedious homily of love haveyou wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried 'Havepatience, good people! 'CELIA. How now! back, friends; shepherd, go off a little:--gowith him, sirrah. TOUCHSTONE. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable retreat; though notwith bag and baggage, yet with scrip and scrippage. [Exeunt CORIN and TOUCHSTONE. ]CELIA. Didst thou hear these verses? ROSALIND. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some ofthem had in them more feet than the verses would bear. CELIA. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses. ROSALIND. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselveswithout the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse. CELIA. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy nameshould be hanged and carved upon these trees? ROSALIND. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before youcame; for look here what I found on a palm-tree: I was neverso berhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat,which I can hardly remember. CELIA. Trow you who hath done this? ROSALIND. Is it a man? CELIA. And a chain, that you once wore, about his neck. Change you colour? ROSALIND. I pray thee, who? CELIA. O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet; butmountains may be removed with earthquakes, and so encounter. ROSALIND. Nay, but who is it? CELIA. Is it possible? ROSALIND. Nay, I pr'ythee now, with most petitionary vehemence,tell me who it is. CELIA. O wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful wonderful! and yetagain wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping! ROSALIND. Good my complexion! dost thou think, though I amcaparisoned like a man, I have a doublet and hose in mydisposition? One inch of delay more is a South-sea of discovery. I pr'ythee tell me who is it? quickly, and speak apace. I wouldthou couldst stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed manout of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd bottle;either too much at once or none at all. I pr'ythee take the corkout of thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings. CELIA. So you may put a man in your belly. ROSALIND.

Is he of God's making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth a beard? CELIA. Nay, he hath but a little beard. ROSALIND. Why, God will send more if the man will be thankful: let me staythe growth of his beard, if thou delay me not the knowledge ofhis chin. CELIA. It is young Orlando, that tripped up the wrestler'sheels and your heart both in an instant. ROSALIND. Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak sad brow and true maid. CELIA. I' faith, coz, 'tis he. ROSALIND. Orlando? CELIA. Orlando. ROSALIND. Alas the day! what shall I do with my doublet and hose? --What did he when thou saw'st him? What said he? How look'd he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Whereremains he? How parted he with thee? and when shalt thou seehim again? Answer me in one word. CELIA. You must borrow me Gargantua's mouth first: 'tis a word toogreat for any mouth of this age's size. To say ay and no tothese particulars is more than to answer in a catechism. ROSALIND. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and inman's apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the day he wrestled? CELIA. It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions ofa lover:--but take a taste of my finding him, and relish it withgood observance. I found him under a tree, like a dropp'd acorn. ROSALIND. It may well be called Jove's tree, when it drops forth suchfruit. CELIA. Give me audience, good madam. ROSALIND. Proceed. CELIA. There lay he, stretched along like a wounded knight. ROSALIND. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it wellbecomes the ground. CELIA. Cry, "holla! " to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvetsunseasonably. He was furnished like a hunter. ROSALIND. O, ominous! he comes to kill my heart. CELIA. I would sing my song without a burden: thou bring'st meout of tune. ROSALIND. Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. CELIA. You bring me out. --Soft! comes he not here? ROSALIND. 'Tis he: slink by, and note him. {CELIA and ROSALIND retire. ][Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES. ]JAQUES. I thank you for your company; but, good faith, I had aslief have been myself alone. ORLANDO. And so had I; but yet, for fashion's sake, I thank youtoo for your society. JAQUES. God buy you: let's meet as little as we can. ORLANDO. I do desire we may be better strangers. JAQUES. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing love songs intheir barks. ORLANDO. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with reading themill-favouredly. JAQUES. Rosalind is your love's name? ORLANDO. Yes, just. JAQUES. I do not like her name. ORLANDO. There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened. JAQUES. What stature is she of? ORLANDO. Just as high as my heart. JAQUES. You are full of pretty answers. Have you not beenacquainted with goldsmiths' wives, and conned them out ofrings? ORLANDO. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth, fromwhence you have studied your questions. JAQUES. You have a nimble wit: I think 'twas made of Atalanta'sheels. Will you sit down with me? and we two will railagainst our mistress the world, and all our misery. ORLANDO. I will chide no breather in the world but myself, againstwhom I know most faults. JAQUES. The worst fault you have is to be in love. ORLANDO. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your best virtue. I amweary of you. JAQUES. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you. ORLANDO. He is drowned in the brook; look but in, and you shall see him. JAQUES. There I shall see mine own figure. ORLANDO. Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher. JAQUES. I'll tarry no longer with you: farewell, good Signior Love. ORLANDO. I am glad of your departure: adieu, good Monsieur Melancholy. [Exit JAQUES. --CELIA and ROSALIND come forward.

]ROSALIND. I will speak to him like a saucy lacquey,and under that habit play the knave with him. --Do you hear,forester? ORLANDO. Very well: what would you? ROSALIND. I pray you, what is't o'clock? ORLANDO. You should ask me what time o' day; there's no clock in theforest. ROSALIND. Then there is no true lover in the forest, else sighingevery minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy footof time as well as a clock. ORLANDO. And why not the swift foot of time? had not that been as proper? ROSALIND. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with diverspersons. I'll tell you who time ambles withal, who time trotswithal, who time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal. ORLANDO. I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal? ROSALIND. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid between thecontract of her marriage and the day it is solemnized; if theinterim be but a se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that itseems the length of seven year. ORLANDO. Who ambles time withal? ROSALIND. With a priest that lacks Latin and a rich man that hathnot the gout: for the one sleeps easily because he cannot study,and the other lives merrily because he feels no pain; the onelacking the burden of lean and wasteful learning, the otherknowing no burden of heavy tedious penury. These time ambleswithal. ORLANDO. Who doth he gallop withal? ROSALIND. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softlyas foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there. ORLANDO. Who stays it still withal? ROSALIND. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between termand term, and then they perceive not how time moves. ORLANDO. Where dwell you, pretty youth? ROSALIND. With this shepherdess, my sister; here in the skirts ofthe forest, like fringe upon a petticoat. ORLANDO. Are you native of this place? ROSALIND. As the coney, that you see dwell where she is kindled. ORLANDO. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase inso removed a dwelling. ROSALIND. I have been told so of many: but indeed an old religiousuncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inlandman; one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it; and I thank God Iam not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offences as hehath generally taxed their whole sex withal. ORLANDO. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laidto the charge of women? ROSALIND. There were none principal; they were all like one anotheras halfpence are; every one fault seeming monstrous till hisfellow fault came to match it. ORLANDO. I pr'ythee recount some of them. ROSALIND. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that aresick. There is a man haunts the forest that abuses our youngplants with carving "Rosalind" on their barks; hangs odes uponhawthorns, and elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying thename of Rosalind: if I could meet that fancy-monger, I would givehim some good counsel, for he seems to have the quotidian of loveupon him. ORLANDO. I am he that is so love-shaked: I pray you tell me your remedy. ROSALIND. There is none of my uncle's marks upon you; he taught me how toknow a man in love; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are notprisoner. ORLANDO. What were his marks? ROSALIND. A lean cheek; which you have not: a blue eye and sunken;which you have not: an unquestionable spirit; which you have not:a beard neglected; which you have not: but I pardon you for that,for simply your having in beard is a younger brother's revenue:--then your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, yoursleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and every thing about youdemonstrating a careless desolation. But you are no such man; youare rather point-device in your accoutrements, as loving yourselfthan seeming the lover of any other. ORLANDO. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love. ROSALIND. Me believe it! you may as soon make her that you lovebelieve it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confessshe does: that is one of the points in the which women still givethe lie to their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he thathangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired? ORLANDO. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, Iam that he, that unfortunate he. ROSALIND. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak? ORLANDO. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much. ROSALIND. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves aswell a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and the reason whythey are not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is soordinary that the whippers are in love too. Yet I profess curingit by counsel. ORLANDO. Did you ever cure any so? ROSALIND. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me hislove, his mistress; and I set him every day to woo me: at whichtime would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate,changeable, longing and liking; proud, fantastical, apish,shallow, inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for everypassion something and for no passion truly anything, as boys andwomen are for the most part cattle of this colour; would now likehim, now loathe him; then entertain him, then forswear him; nowweep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor from hismad humour of love to a living humour of madness; which was, toforswear the full stream of the world and to live in a nookmerely monastic. And thus I cured him; and this way will I takeupon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep's heart,that there shall not be one spot of love in 't. ORLANDO. I would not be cured, youth. ROSALIND. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, andcome every day to my cote and woo me. ORLANDO. Now, by the faith of my love, I will: tell me where it is. ROSALIND. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you: and, by the way,you shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go? ORLANDO. With all my heart, good youth. ROSALIND. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. --Come, sister, will you go? [Exeunt. ]SCENE III. Another part of the Forest. [Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES at a distance observingthem. ]TOUCHSTONE. Come apace, good Audrey; I will fetch up your goats,Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the man yet? Doth my simplefeature content you? AUDREY. Your features! Lord warrant us! what features? TOUCHSTONE. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the mostcapricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the Goths. JAQUES. [Aside] O knowledge ill-inhabited! worse than Jove in a thatch'dhouse! TOUCHSTONE. When a man's verses cannot be understood, nor a man'sgood wit seconded with the forward child understanding, itstrikes a man more dead than a great reckoning in a littleroom. --Truly, I would the gods had made thee poetical. AUDREY. I do not know what "poetical" is: is it honest in deed andword?

is it a true thing? TOUCHSTONE. No, truly: for the truest poetry is the most feigning;and lovers are given to poetry; and what they swear in poetrymay be said, as lovers, they do feign. AUDREY. Do you wish, then, that the gods had made me poetical? TOUCHSTONE. I do, truly, for thou swear'st to me thou art honest;now, if thou wert a poet, I might have some hope thou didstfeign. AUDREY. Would you not have me honest? TOUCHSTONE. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favoured; for honestycoupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar. JAQUES. [Aside] A material fool! AUDREY. Well, I am not fair; and therefore I pray the gods make mehonest! TOUCHSTONE. Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul slut wereto put good meat into an unclean dish. AUDREY. I am not a slut, though I thank the gods I am foul. TOUCHSTONE. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness! sluttishnessmay come hereafter. But be it as it may be, I will marry thee:and to that end I have been with Sir Oliver Martext, the vicarof the next village; who hath promised to meet me in this placeof the forest, and to couple us. JAQUES. [Aside] I would fain see this meeting. AUDREY. Well, the gods give us joy! TOUCHSTONE. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful heart, staggerin this attempt; for here we have no temple but the wood, noassembly but horn-beasts. But what though? Courage! As hornsare odious, they are necessary. It is said,--"Many a man knows noend of his goods;" right! many a man has good horns and knows noend of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife; 'tis none ofhis own getting. Horns? Ever to poor men alone? --No, no; thenoblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the single mantherefore blessed? No: as a walled town is more worthier than avillage, so is the forehead of a married man more honourable thanthe bare brow of a bachelor: and by how much defence is betterthan no skill, by so much is horn more precious than to want. Here comes Sir Oliver. [Enter SIR OLIVER MARTEXT. ]Sir Oliver Martext, you are well met. Will you despatch ushere under this tree, or shall we go with you to your chapel? MARTEXT. Is there none here to give the woman? TOUCHSTONE. I will not take her on gift of any man. MARTEXT. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. JAQUES. [Discovering himself. ] Proceed, proceed; I'll give her. TOUCHSTONE. Good even, good Master 'What-ye-call't': how do you, sir? You are very well met: God 'ild you for your last company: Iam very glad to see you:--even a toy in hand here, sir:--nay;pray be covered. JAQUES. Will you be married, motley? TOUCHSTONE. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, andthe falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeonsbill, so wedlock would be nibbling. JAQUES. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be marriedunder a bush, like a beggar? Get you to church and have a goodpriest that can tell you what marriage is: this fellow willbut join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you willprove a shrunk panel, and like green timber, warp, warp. TOUCHSTONE. [Aside] I am not in the mind but I were better to bemarried of him than of another: for he is not like to marryme well; and not being well married, it will be a good excusefor me hereafter to leave my wife. JAQUES. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. TOUCHSTONE. Come, sweet Audrey;We must be married or we must live in bawdry. Farewell, good Master Oliver! --Not-- "O sweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, Leave me not behind thee. "But,-- "Wind away,-- Begone, I say, I will not to wedding with thee. "[Exeunt JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY. ]MARTEXT. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them allshall flout me out of my calling. [Exit. ]SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest. Before a Cottage. [Enter ROSALIND and CELIA. ]ROSALIND. Never talk to me; I will weep. CELIA. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to consider thattears do not become a man. ROSALIND. But have I not cause to weep? CELIA. As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep. ROSALIND. His very hair is of the dissembling colour. CELIA. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kisses are Judas's ownchildren. ROSALIND. I' faith, his hair is of a good colour. CELIA. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour. ROSALIND. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holybread. CELIA. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun ofwinter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very iceof chastity is in them. ROSALIND. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not? CELIA. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. ROSALIND. Do you think so? CELIA. Yes; I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; butfor his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a coveredgoblet or a worm-eaten nut. ROSALIND. Not true in love? CELIA. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in. ROSALIND. You have heard him swear downright he was. CELIA. 'Was' is not 'is': besides, the oath of a lover is nostronger than the word of a tapster; they are both theconfirmer of false reckonings. He attends here in the foreston the duke, your father. ROSALIND. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question withhim. He asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as goodas he; so he laughed and let me go. But what talk we of fatherswhen there is such a man as Orlando? CELIA. O, that's a brave man!

he writes brave verses, speaks bravewords, swears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quitetraverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter,that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like anoble goose: but all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides. --Who comes here? [Enter CORIN. ]CORIN. Mistress and master, you have oft enquiredAfter the shepherd that complain'd of love,Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,Praising the proud disdainful shepherdessThat was his mistress. CELIA. Well, and what of him? CORIN. If you will see a pageant truly play'dBetween the pale complexion of true loveAnd the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,If you will mark it. ROSALIND. O, come, let us remove:The sight of lovers feedeth those in love. Bring us to this sight, and you shall sayI'll prove a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt. ]SCENE V. Another part of the Forest. [Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE. ]SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:Say that you love me not; but say not soIn bitterness. The common executioner,Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard,Falls not the axe upon the humbled neckBut first begs pardon. Will you sterner beThan he that dies and lives by bloody drops? [Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance. ]PHEBE. I would not be thy executioner:I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. Thou tell'st me there is murder in mine eye:'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,That eyes,--that are the frail'st and softest things,Who shut their coward gates on atomies,--Should be called tyrants, butchers, murderers! Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:Now counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down;Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remainsSome scar of it; lean upon a rush,The cicatrice and capable impressureThy palm some moment keeps; but now mine eyes,Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;Nor, I am sure, there is not force in eyesThat can do hurt. SILVIUS. O dear Phebe,If ever,--as that ever may be near,--You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,Then shall you know the wounds invisibleThat love's keen arrows make. PHEBE. But till that timeCome not thou near me; and when that time comesAfflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;As till that time I shall not pity thee. ROSALIND. [Advancing] And why, I pray you? Who might be your mother,That you insult, exult, and all at once,Over the wretched? What though you have no beauty,--As, by my faith, I see no more in youThan without candle may go dark to bed,--Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you than in the ordinaryOf nature's sale-work:--Od's my little life,I think she means to tangle my eyes too! --No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,That can entame my spirits to your worship. --You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? You are a thousand times a properer manThan she a woman. 'Tis such fools as youThat makes the world full of ill-favour'd children:'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;And out of you she sees herself more properThan any of her lineaments can show her;--But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love:For I must tell you friendly in your ear,--Sell when you can; you are not for all markets:Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer;Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee, shepherd;--fare you well. PHEBE. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together:I had rather hear you chide than this man woo. ROSALIND. He's fall'n in love with your foulness, and she'll fallin love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she answers theewith frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words. --Why lookyou so upon me? PHEBE. For no ill-will I bear you. ROSALIND. I pray you do not fall in love with me,For I am falser than vows made in wine:Besides, I like you not. --If you will know my house,'Tis at the tuft of olives here hard by. --Will you go, sister? --Shepherd, ply her hard. --Come, sister. --Shepherdess, look on him better,And be not proud; though all the world could see,None could be so abused in sight as he. Come to our flock. [Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN. ]PHEBE. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight? 'SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe,--PHEBE. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe, pity me. PHEBE. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. SILVIUS. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:If you do sorrow at my grief in love,By giving love, your sorrow and my griefWere both extermin'd. PHEBE. Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly? SILVIUS. I would have you. PHEBE. Why, that were covetousness. Silvius, the time was that I hated thee;And yet it is not that I bear thee love:But since that thou canst talk of love so well,Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:But do not look for further recompenseThan thine own gladness that thou art employ'd. SILVIUS. So holy and so perfect is my love,And I in such a poverty of grace,That I shall think it a most plenteous cropTo glean the broken ears after the manThat the main harvest reaps: lose now and thenA scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon. PHEBE. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile? SILVIUS. Not very well; but I have met him oft;And he hath bought the cottage and the boundsThat the old carlot once was master of. PHEBE. Think not I love him, though I ask for him;'Tis but a peevish boy:--yet he talks well;--But what care I for words? yet words do wellWhen he that speaks them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth:--not very pretty:--But, sure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him:He'll make a proper man: the best thing in himIs his complexion; and faster than his tongueDid make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not very tall; yet for his years he's tall;His leg is but so-so; and yet 'tis well:There was a pretty redness in his lip;A little riper and more lusty redThan that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the differenceBetwixt the constant red and mingled damask. There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd himIn parcels as I did, would have gone nearTo fall in love with him: but, for my part,I love him not, nor hate him not; and yetI have more cause to hate him than to love him:For what had he to do to chide at me? He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black;And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me:I marvel why I answer'd not again:But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. I'll write to him a very taunting letter,And thou shalt bear it: wilt thou, Silvius? SILVIUS. Phebe, with all my heart. PHEBE. I'll write it straight,The matter's in my head and in my heart:I will be bitter with him and passing short:Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt. ]ACT IV. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden. [Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES. ]JAQUES. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. ROSALIND. They say you are a melancholy fellow. JAQUES. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. ROSALIND. Those that are in extremity of either are abominablefellows, and betray themselves to every modern censure worsethan drunkards. JAQUES. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say nothing. ROSALIND. Why then, 'tis good to be a post. JAQUES. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which isemulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor thecourtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which isambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's,which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it isa melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extractedfrom many objects: and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of mytravels; in which my often rumination wraps me in a mosthumorous sadness. ROSALIND. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to besad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's;then to have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyesand poor hands. JAQUES. Yes, I have gained my experience. ROSALIND. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool tomake me merry than experience to make me sad; and to travel forit too. [Enter ORLANDO.

]ORLANDO. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! JAQUES. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse. ROSALIND. Farewell, monsieur traveller: look you lisp and wear strangesuits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be outof love with your nativity, and almost chide God for makingyou that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you haveswam in a gondola. [Exit JAQUES. ]Why, how now, Orlando! where have you been all this while? You a lover! --An you serve me such another trick, never comein my sight more. ORLANDO. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. ROSALIND. Break an hour's promise in love! He that will divide aminute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of thethousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be saidof him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I'llwarrant him heart-whole. ORLANDO. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. ROSALIND. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: Ihad as lief be wooed of a snail. ORLANDO. Of a snail! ROSALIND. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carrieshis house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than youmake a woman: besides, he brings his destiny with him. ORLANDO. What's that? ROSALIND. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholding toyour wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and preventsthe slander of his wife. ORLANDO. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous. ROSALIND. And I am your Rosalind. CELIA. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind ofa better leer than you. ROSALIND. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour,and like enough to consent. --What would you say to me now, anI were your very very Rosalind? ORLANDO. I would kiss before I spoke. ROSALIND. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you weregravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and forlovers lacking,--God warn us! --matter, the cleanliest shift isto kiss. ORLANDO. How if the kiss be denied? ROSALIND. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter. ORLANDO. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress? ROSALIND. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or Ishould think my honesty ranker than my wit. ORLANDO. What, of my suit? ROSALIND. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind? ORLANDO. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking ofher. ROSALIND. Well, in her person, I say I will not have you. ORLANDO. Then, in mine own person, I die. ROSALIND. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost sixthousand years old, and in all this time there was not any mandied in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus hadhis brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what hecould to die before; and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero hadturned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for,good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and,being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolishchroniclers of that age found it was--Hero of Sestos. But theseare all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms haveeaten them, but not for love. ORLANDO. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, Iprotest, her frown might kill me. ROSALIND. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come, now Iwill be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; andask me what you will, I will grant it. ORLANDO. Then love me, Rosalind. ROSALIND. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and all. ORLANDO. And wilt thou have me? ROSALIND. Ay, and twenty such. ORLANDO. What sayest thou? ROSALIND. Are you not good? ORLANDO. I hope so. ROSALIND. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? --Come,sister, you shall be the priest, and marry us. --Give me yourhand, Orlando:--What do you say, sister? ORLANDO. Pray thee, marry us. CELIA. I cannot say the words. ROSALIND. You must begin,--'Will you, Orlando'--CELIA. Go to:--Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind? ORLANDO. I will. ROSALIND. Ay, but when? ORLANDO. Why, now; as fast as she can marry us. ROSALIND. Then you must say,--'I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. 'ORLANDO. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. ROSALIND. I might ask you for your commission; but,--I do takethee, Orlando, for my husband:--there's a girl goes before thepriest; and, certainly, a woman's thought runs before heractions. ORLANDO. So do all thoughts; they are winged. ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have possessedher. ORLANDO. For ever and a day. ROSALIND. Say "a day," without the "ever. " No, no, Orlando: men areApril when they woo, December when they wed: maids are May whenthey are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives. I willbe more jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen;more clamorous than a parrot against rain; more new-fangled thanan ape; more giddy in my desires than a monkey: I will weep fornothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when youare disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen, and that whenthou are inclined to sleep. ORLANDO. But will my Rosalind do so? ROSALIND. By my life, she will do as I do.

ORLANDO. O, but she is wise. ROSALIND. Or else she could not have the wit to do this: the wiser,the waywarder: make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it willout at the casement; shut that, and it will out at the keyhole;stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney. ORLANDO. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he might say,--'Wit,whither wilt? 'ROSALIND. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you met your wife'swit going to your neighbour's bed. ORLANDO. And what wit could wit have to excuse that? ROSALIND. Marry, to say,--she came to seek you there. You shall nevertake her without her answer, unless you take her without hertongue. O, that woman that cannot make her fault her husband'soccasion, let her never nurse her child herself, for she willbreed it like a fool. ORLANDO. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave thee. ROSALIND. Alas, dear love, I cannot lack thee two hours! ORLANDO. I must attend the duke at dinner; by two o'clock Iwill be with thee again. ROSALIND. Ay, go your ways, go your ways; I knew what you wouldprove; my friends told me as much, and I thought no less:--thatflattering tongue of yours won me:--'tis but one cast away,and so,--come death! --Two o'clock is your hour? ORLANDO. Ay, sweet Rosalind. ROSALIND. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God mend me, andby all pretty oaths that are not dangerous, if you break one jotof your promise, or come one minute behind your hour, I willthink you the most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollowlover, and the most unworthy of her you call Rosalind, that maybe chosen out of the gross band of the unfaithful: thereforebeware my censure, and keep your promise. ORLANDO. With no less religion than if thou wert indeed my Rosalind: so,adieu! ROSALIND. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all suchoffenders, and let time try: adieu! [Exit ORLANDO. ]CELIA. You have simply misus'd our sex in your love-prate: we musthave your doublet and hose plucked over your head, and showthe world what the bird hath done to her own nest. ROSALIND. O coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou didst knowhow many fathom deep I am in love! But it cannot be sounded:my affection hath an unknown bottom, like the bay of Portugal. CELIA. Or rather, bottomless; that as fast as you pour affectionin, it runs out. ROSALIND. No; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that was begot ofthought, conceived of spleen, and born of madness; that blindrascally boy, that abuses every one's eyes, because his own areout, let him be judge how deep I am in love. --I'll tell thee,Aliena, I cannot be out of the sight of Orlando: I'll go finda shadow, and sigh till he come. CELIA. And I'll sleep. [Exeunt. ]SCENE II. Another part of the Forest. [Enter JAQUES and Lords, in the habit of Foresters. ]JAQUES. Which is he that killed the deer? LORD. Sir, it was I. JAQUES. Let's present him to the duke, like a Roman conqueror; andit would do well to set the deer's horns upon his head for abranch of victory. --Have you no song, forester, for this purpose? LORD. Yes, sir. JAQUES. Sing it; 'tis no matter how it be in tune, so it make noiseenough. SONG. 1. What shall he have that kill'd the deer? 2. His leather skin and horns to wear. 1. Then sing him home: [The rest shall bear this burden. ] Take thou no scorn to wear the horn; It was a crest ere thou wast born. 1. Thy father's father wore it; 2. And thy father bore it;All. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn, Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. [Exeunt. ]SCENE III. Another part of the Forest. [Enter ROSALIND and CELIA. ]ROSALIND. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock? And here much Orlando! CELIA. I warrant you, with pure love and troubled brain, he hathta'en his bow and arrows, and is gone forth--to sleep. Look,who comes here. [Enter SILVIUS. ]SILVIUS. My errand is to you, fair youth;--My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this:[Giving a letter. ]I know not the contents; but, as I guessBy the stern brow and waspish actionWhich she did use as she was writing of it,It bears an angry tenor: pardon me,I am but as a guiltless messenger. ROSALIND. Patience herself would startle at this letter,And play the swaggerer; bear this, bear all:She says I am not fair; that I lack manners;She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,Were man as rare as Phoenix. Od's my will! Her love is not the hare that I do hunt;Why writes she so to me? --Well, shepherd, well,This is a letter of your own device. SILVIUS. No, I protest, I know not the contents: Phebe did write it. ROSALIND. Come, come, you are a fool,And turn'd into the extremity of love. I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,A freestone-colour'd hand: I verily did thinkThat her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands;She has a huswife's hand: but that's no matter:I say she never did invent this letter:This is a man's invention, and his hand. SILVIUS. Sure, it is hers. ROSALIND. Why, 'tis a boisterous and a cruel style;A style for challengers: why, she defies me,Like Turk to Christian: women's gentle brainCould not drop forth such giant-rude invention,Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effectThan in their countenance. --Will you hear the letter? SILVIUS. So please you, for I never heard it yet;Yet heard too much of Phebe's cruelty. ROSALIND. She Phebes me: mark how the tyrant writes. [Reads] 'Art thou god to shepherd turn'd, That a maiden's heart hath burn'd? 'Can a woman rail thus? SILVIUS. Call you this railing? ROSALIND. 'Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr'st thou with a woman's heart? 'Did you ever hear such railing? 'Whiles the eye of man did woo me, That could do no vengeance to me. '--Meaning me a beast. -- 'If the scorn of your bright eyne Have power to raise such love in mine, Alack, in me what strange effect Would they work in mild aspect? Whiles you chid me, I did love; How then might your prayers move? He that brings this love to thee Little knows this love in me: And by him seal up thy mind; Whether that thy youth and kind Will the faithful offer take Of me and all that I can make; Or else by him my love deny, And then I'll study how to die. 'SILVIUS. Call you this chiding? CELIA. Alas, poor shepherd! ROSALIND. Do you pity him? no, he deserves no pity.

--Wilt thou lovesuch a woman? --What, to make thee an instrument, and play falsestrains upon thee! Not to be endured! --Well, go your way to her,--for I see love hath made thee a tame snake,--and say this toher;--that if she love me, I charge her to love thee; if she willnot, I will never have her unless thou entreat for her. --If yoube a true lover, hence, and not a word; for here comes morecompany. [Exit SILVIUS. ][Enter OLIVER. ]OLIVER. Good morrow, fair ones: pray you, if you know,Where in the purlieus of this forest standsA sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees? CELIA. West of this place, down in the neighbour bottom:The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,Left on your right hand, brings you to the place. But at this hour the house doth keep itself;There's none within. OLIVER. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,Then should I know you by description;Such garments, and such years: 'The boy is fair,Of female favour, and bestows himselfLike a ripe sister: the woman low,And browner than her brother. ' Are not youThe owner of the house I did inquire for? CELIA. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are. OLIVER. Orlando doth commend him to you both;And to that youth he calls his RosalindHe sends this bloody napkin:--are you he? ROSALIND. I am: what must we understand by this? OLIVER. Some of my shame; if you will know of meWhat man I am, and how, and why, and where,This handkerchief was stain'd. CELIA. I pray you, tell it. OLIVER. When last the young Orlando parted from you,He left a promise to return againWithin an hour; and, pacing through the forest,Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside,And, mark, what object did present itself! Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age,And high top bald with dry antiquity,A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair,Lay sleeping on his back: about his neckA green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,Who, with her head nimble in threats, approach'dThe opening of his mouth; but suddenly,Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself,And with indented glides did slip awayInto a bush: under which bush's shadeA lioness, with udders all drawn dry,Lay couching, head on ground, with cat-like watch,When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tisThe royal disposition of that beastTo prey on nothing that doth seem as dead:This seen, Orlando did approach the man,And found it was his brother, his elder brother. CELIA. O, I have heard him speak of that same brother;And he did render him the most unnaturalThat liv'd amongst men. OLIVER. And well he might so do,For well I know he was unnatural. ROSALIND. But, to Orlando:--did he leave him there,Food to the suck'd and hungry lioness? OLIVER. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos'd so;But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,And nature, stronger than his just occasion,Made him give battle to the lioness,Who quickly fell before him; in which hurtlingFrom miserable slumber I awak'd. CELIA. Are you his brother? ROSALIND. Was it you he rescued? CELIA. Was't you that did so oft contrive to kill him? OLIVER. 'Twas I; but 'tis not I: I do not shameTo tell you what I was, since my conversionSo sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. ROSALIND. But, for the bloody napkin? --OLIVER. By and by. When from the first to last, betwixt us two,Tears our recountments had most kindly bath'd,As, how I came into that desert place;--In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,Who gave me fresh array and entertainment,Committing me unto my brother's love,Who led me instantly unto his cave,There stripp'd himself, and here upon his armThe lioness had torn some flesh away,Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted,And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. Brief, I recover'd him, bound up his wound,And, after some small space, being strong at heart,He sent me hither, stranger as I am,To tell this story, that you might excuseHis broken promise, and to give this napkin,Dy'd in his blood, unto the shepherd-youthThat he in sport doth call his Rosalind. [ROSALIND faints. ]CELIA. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede! OLIVER. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. CELIA. There is more in it:--Cousin--Ganymede! OLIVER. Look, he recovers. ROSALIND. I would I were at home. CELIA. We'll lead you thither:--I pray you, will you take him by the arm? OLIVER. Be of good cheer, youth:--you a man? --You lack a man's heart. ROSALIND. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sir, a body would thinkthis was well counterfeited. I pray you tell your brother howwell I counterfeited. --Heigh-ho! --OLIVER. This was not counterfeit; there is too great testimonyin your complexion that it was a passion of earnest. ROSALIND. Counterfeit, I assure you. OLIVER. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man. ROSALIND. So I do: but, i' faith, I should have been a woman by right. CELIA. Come, you look paler and paler: pray you draw homewards. --Good sir, go with us. OLIVER. That will I, for I must bear answer backHow you excuse my brother, Rosalind. ROSALIND. I shall devise something: but, I pray you, commend mycounterfeiting to him. --Will you go? [Exeunt. ]ACT V. SCENE I. The Forest of Arden. [Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY. ]TOUCHSTONE. We shall find a time, Audrey; patience, gentle Audrey. AUDREY. Faith, the priest was good enough, for all the old gentleman'ssaying. TOUCHSTONE. A most wicked Sir Oliver, Audrey, a most vile Martext. But, Audrey, there is a youth here in the forest lays claim toyou. AUDREY. Ay, I know who 'tis: he hath no interest in me in theworld: here comes the man you mean. [Enter WILLIAM. ]TOUCHSTONE. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown: By my troth,we that have good wits have much to answer for; we shall beflouting; we cannot hold. WILLIAM. Good even, Audrey. AUDREY. God ye good even, William. WILLIAM. And good even to you, sir. TOUCHSTONE. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thyhead; nay, pr'ythee, be covered. How old are you, friend? WILLIAM. Five and twenty, sir. TOUCHSTONE. A ripe age. Is thy name William? WILLIAM. William, sir. TOUCHSTONE.

A fair name. Wast born i' the forest here? WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I thank God. TOUCHSTONE. "Thank God;"--a good answer. Art rich? WILLIAM. Faith, sir, so-so. TOUCHSTONE. "So-so" is good, very good, very excellent good:--andyet it is not; it is but so-so. Art thou wise? WILLIAM. Ay, sir, I have a pretty wit. TOUCHSTONE. Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying; 'Thefool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself tobe a fool. ' The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eata grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth;meaning thereby that grapes were made to eat and lips to open. You do love this maid? WILLIAM. I do, sir. TOUCHSTONE. Give me your hand. Art thou learned? WILLIAM. No, sir. TOUCHSTONE. Then learn this of me:--to have is to have; for it is a figure inrhetoric that drink, being poured out of cup into a glass, byfilling the one doth empty the other; for all your writers doconsent that ipse is he; now, you are not ipse, for I am he. WILLIAM. Which he, sir? TOUCHSTONE. He, sir, that must marry this woman. Therefore, you clown,abandon,--which is in the vulgar, leave,--the society,--whichin the boorish is company,--of this female,--which in the commonis woman,--which together is abandon the society of this female;or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better understanding,diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee away, translate thylife into death, thy liberty into bondage: I will deal in poisonwith thee, or in bastinado, or in steel; I will bandy with theein faction; will o'er-run thee with policy; I will kill thee ahundred and fifty ways; therefore tremble and depart. AUDREY. Do, good William. WILLIAM. God rest you merry, sir. [Exit. ][Enter CORIN. ]CORIN. Our master and mistress seek you; come away, away! TOUCHSTONE. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey;--I attend, I attend. [Exeunt. ]SCENE II. Another part of the Forest. [Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER. ]ORLANDO. Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you shouldlike her? that but seeing you should love her? and loving woo? and, wooing, she should grant? and will you persever to enjoyher? OLIVER. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the povertyof her, the small acquaintance, my sudden wooing, nor her suddenconsenting; but say with me, I love Aliena; say, with her, thatshe loves me; consent with both, that we may enjoy each other: itshall be to your good; for my father's house, and all the revenuethat was old Sir Rowland's will I estate upon you, and herelive and die a shepherd. ORLANDO. You have my consent. Let your wedding be to-morrow: thither willI invite the duke and all's contented followers. Go you andprepare Aliena; for, look you, here comes my Rosalind. [Enter ROSALIND. ]ROSALIND. God save you, brother. OLIVER. And you, fair sister. [Exit. ]ROSALIND. O, my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see theewear thy heart in a scarf! ORLANDO. It is my arm. ROSALIND. I thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion. ORLANDO. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. ROSALIND. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited to swoonwhen he show'd me your handkercher? ORLANDO. Ay, and greater wonders than that. ROSALIND. O, I know where you are:--nay, 'tis true: there was neveranything so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar'sthrasonical brag of "I came, saw, and overcame:" for your brotherand my sister no sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked,but they loved; no sooner loved, but they sighed; no soonersighed, but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew thereason, but they sought the remedy: and in these degrees havethey made pair of stairs to marriage, which they will climbincontinent, or else be incontinent before marriage: they are inthe very wrath of love, and they will together: clubs cannot partthem. ORLANDO. They shall be married to-morrow; and I will bid the duketo the nuptial. But O, how bitter a thing it is to look intohappiness through another man's eyes! By so much the more shall Ito-morrow be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much Ishall think my brother happy in having what he wishes for. ROSALIND. Why, then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn for Rosalind? ORLANDO. I can live no longer by thinking. ROSALIND. I will weary you, then, no longer with idle talking. Knowof me then,--for now I speak to some purpose,--that I know youare a gentleman of good conceit: I speak not this that you shouldbear a good opinion of my knowledge, insomuch I say I know youare; neither do I labour for a greater esteem than may in somelittle measure draw a belief from you, to do yourself good, andnot to grace me. Believe then, if you please, that I can dostrange things: I have, since I was three year old, conversedwith a magician, most profound in his art and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so near the heart as your gesture criesit out, when your brother marries Aliena, shall you marry her:--I know into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is notimpossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to you, to sether before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is, and without anydanger. ORLANDO. Speak'st thou in sober meanings? ROSALIND. By my life, I do; which I tender dearly, though I say Iam a magician. Therefore put you in your best array, bid yourfriends; for if you will be married to-morrow, you shall; andto Rosalind, if you will. Look, here comes a lover of mine, and alover of hers. [Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE. ]PHEBE. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,To show the letter that I writ to you. ROSALIND. I care not if I have: it is my studyTo seem despiteful and ungentle to you:You are there follow'd by a faithful shepherd;Look upon him, love him; he worships you. PHEBE. Good shepherd, tell this youth what 'tis to love. SILVIUS. It is to be all made of sighs and tears;--And so am I for Phebe. PHEBE. And I for Ganymede. ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind. ROSALIND. And I for no woman. SILVIUS. It is to be all made of faith and service;--And so am I for Phebe. PHEBE. And I for Ganymede. ORLANDO. And I for Rosalind. ROSALIND. And I for no woman. SILVIUS. It is to be all made of fantasy,All made of passion, and all made of wishes;All adoration, duty, and observance,All humbleness, all patience, and impatience,All purity, all trial, all observance;--And so am I for Phebe. PHEBE.

And so am I for Ganymede. ORLANDO. And so am I for Rosalind. ROSALIND. And so am I for no woman. PHEBE. [To ROSALIND. ] If this be so, why blame you me to love you? SILVIUS. [To PHEBE. ] If this be so, why blame you me to love you? ORLANDO. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? ROSALIND. Why do you speak too,--'Why blame you me to love you? 'ORLANDO. To her that is not here, nor doth not hear. ROSALIND. Pray you, no more of this; 'tis like the howling of Irish wolvesagainst the moon. --[to SILVIUS] I will help you if I can;--[to PHEBE] I would love you if I could. --To-morrow meet me all together. --[to PHEBE] I will marry you if ever I marry woman, and I'll bemarried to-morrow:--[to ORLANDO] I will satisfy you if ever I satisfied man, and youshall be married to-morrow:--[to SILVIUS] I will content you if what pleases you contents you,and you shall be married to-morrow. [to ORLANDO] As you love Rosalind, meet. [to SILVIUS] As you love Phebe, meet;--and as I love no woman, I'll meet. --So, fare you well; I haveleft you commands. SILVIUS. I'll not fail, if I live. PHEBE. Nor I. ORLANDO. Nor I. [Exeunt. ]SCENE III. Another part of the Forest. [Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY. ]TOUCHSTONE. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey; to-morrow will we bemarried. AUDREY. I do desire it with all my heart; and I hope it is nodishonest desire to desire to be a woman of the world. Herecome two of the banished duke's pages. [Enter two Pages. ]FIRST PAGE. Well met, honest gentleman. TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, well met. Come sit, sit, and a song. SECOND PAGE. We are for you: sit i' the middle. FIRST PAGE. Shall we clap into't roundly, without hawking, or spitting, orsaying we are hoarse, which are the only prologues to a badvoice? SECOND PAGE. I'faith, i'faith; and both in a tune, like two gipsies on ahorse. SONG. I. It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding: Sweet lovers love the spring. II. Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring time, &c. III. This carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a life was but a flower, In the spring time, &c. IV. And therefore take the present time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the prime, In the spring time, &c. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was no greatmatter in the ditty, yet the note was very untimeable. FIRST PAGE. You are deceived, sir; we kept time, we lost not our time. TOUCHSTONE. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to hear sucha foolish song. God be with you; and God mend your voices! Come,Audrey. [Exeunt. ]SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest. [Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO, OLIVER, and CELIA. ]DUKE SENIOR. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boyCan do all this that he hath promised? ORLANDO. I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not:As those that fear they hope, and know they fear. [Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE. ]ROSALIND. Patience once more, whiles our compact is urg'd:--[To the Duke. ]You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,You will bestow her on Orlando here? DUKE SENIOR. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. ROSALIND. [To Orlando. ] And you say you will have her when I bring her? ORLANDO. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. ROSALIND. [To Phebe. ] You say you'll marry me, if I be willing? PHEBE. That will I, should I die the hour after. ROSALIND. But if you do refuse to marry me,You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd? PHEBE. So is the bargain. ROSALIND. [To Silvius. ] You say that you'll have Phebe, if she will? SILVIUS. Though to have her and death were both one thing. ROSALIND. I have promis'd to make all this matter even. Keep you your word, O duke, to give your daughter;--You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter;--Keep your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me;Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd:--Keep your word, Silvius, that you'll marry herIf she refuse me:--and from hence I go,To make these doubts all even. [Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA. ]DUKE SENIOR. I do remember in this shepherd-boySome lively touches of my daughter's favour. ORLANDO. My lord, the first time that I ever saw himMethought he was a brother to your daughter:But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,And hath been tutor'd in the rudimentsOf many desperate studies by his uncle,Whom he reports to be a great magician,Obscured in the circle of this forest. JAQUES. There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples arecoming to the ark. Here comes a pair of very strange beastswhich in all tongues are called fools. [Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY. ]TOUCHSTONE. Salutation and greeting to you all! JAQUES. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the motley-mindedgentleman that I have so often met in the forest: he hathbeen a courtier, he swears. TOUCHSTONE. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a lady; I have beenpolitic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have undonethree tailors; I have had four quarrels, and like to have foughtone. JAQUES. And how was that ta'en up?

TOUCHSTONE. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was upon the seventh cause. JAQUES. How seventh cause? Good my lord, like this fellow. DUKE SENIOR. I like him very well. TOUCHSTONE. God 'ild you, sir; I desire you of the like. I press inhere, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swearand to forswear; according as marriage binds and blood breaks:--Apoor virgin, sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own; apoor humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will;rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor-house; as yourpearl in your foul oyster. DUKE SENIOR. By my faith, he is very swift and sententious. TOUCHSTONE. According to the fool's bolt, sir, and such dulcet diseases. JAQUES. But, for the seventh cause; how did you find the quarrel onthe seventh cause? TOUCHSTONE. Upon a lie seven times removed;--bear your body moreseeming, Audrey:--as thus, sir, I did dislike the cut of acertain courtier's beard; he sent me word, if I said his beardwas not cut well, he was in the mind it was: this is called theRetort courteous. If I sent him word again it was not well cut,he would send me word he cut it to please himself: this is calledthe Quip modest. If again, it was not well cut, he disabled myjudgment: this is called the Reply churlish. If again, it was notwell cut, he would answer I spake not true: this is called theReproof valiant. If again, it was not well cut, he would say Ilie: this is called the Countercheck quarrelsome: and so, to theLie circumstantial, and the Lie direct. JAQUES. And how oft did you say his beard was not well cut? TOUCHSTONE. I durst go no further than the Lie circumstantial, norhe durst not give me the Lie direct; and so we measuredswords and parted. JAQUES. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie? TOUCHSTONE. O, sir, we quarrel in print by the book, as you havebooks for good manners: I will name you the degrees. The first,the Retort courteous; the second, the Quip modest; the third, theReply churlish; the fourth, the Reproof valiant; the fifth, theCountercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with circumstance;the seventh, the Lie direct. All these you may avoid but the LieDirect; and you may avoid that too with an 'If'. I knew whenseven justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the partieswere met themselves, one of them thought but of an 'If', as: 'Ifyou said so, then I said so;' and they shook hands, and sworebrothers. Your 'If' is the only peace-maker;--much virtue in'If. 'JAQUES. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he's as good at anything, andyet a fool. DUKE SENIOR. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under thepresentation of that he shoots his wit. [Enter HYMEN, leading ROSALIND in woman's clothes; and CELIA. ][Still MUSIC. ]HYMEN. Then is there mirth in heaven, When earthly things made even Atone together. Good duke, receive thy daughter; Hymen from heaven brought her, Yea, brought her hither, That thou mightst join her hand with his, Whose heart within his bosom is. ROSALIND. [To DUKE SENIOR. ] To you I give myself, for I am yours. [To ORLANDO. ] To you I give myself, for I am yours. DUKE SENIOR. If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter. ORLANDO. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind. PHEBE. If sight and shape be true,Why then, my love, adieu! ROSALIND. [To DUKE SENIOR. ] I'll have no father, if you be not he;--[To ORLANDO. ] I'll have no husband, if you be not he;--[To PHEBE. ] Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she. HYMEN. Peace, ho! I bar confusion: 'Tis I must make conclusion Of these most strange events: Here's eight that must take hands To join in Hymen's bands, If truth holds true contents. [To ORLANDO and ROSALIND. ] You and you no cross shall part:[To OLIVER and CELIA. ] You and you are heart in heart;[To PHEBE. ] You to his love must accord,Or have a woman to your lord:--[To TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY. ] You and you are sure together,As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,Feed yourselves with questioning,That reason wonder may diminish,How thus we met, and these things finish. SONG Wedding is great Juno's crown; O blessed bond of board and bed! 'Tis Hymen peoples every town; High wedlock then be honoured; Honour, high honour, and renown, To Hymen, god of every town! DUKE SENIOR. O my dear niece, welcome thou art to me! Even daughter, welcome in no less degree. PHEBE. [To SILVIUS. ] I will not eat my word, now thou art mine;Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. [Enter JAQUES DE BOIS. ]JAQUES DE BOIS. Let me have audience for a word or two;I am the second son of old Sir Rowland,That bring these tidings to this fair assembly:--Duke Frederick, hearing how that every dayMen of great worth resorted to this forest,Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot,In his own conduct, purposely to takeHis brother here, and put him to the sword:And to the skirts of this wild wood he came;Where, meeting with an old religious man,After some question with him, was convertedBoth from his enterprise and from the world;His crown bequeathing to his banish'd brother,And all their lands restored to them againThat were with him exil'd. This to be trueI do engage my life. DUKE SENIOR. Welcome, young man:Thou offer'st fairly to thy brother's wedding:To one, his lands withheld; and to the other,A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. First, in this forest, let us do those endsThat here were well begun and well begot:And after, every of this happy number,That have endur'd shrewd days and nights with us,Shall share the good of our returned fortune,According to the measure of their states. Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity,And fall into our rustic revelry:--Play, music! --and you brides and bridegrooms all,With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures fall. JAQUES. Sir, by your patience. If I heard you rightly,The duke hath put on a religious life,And thrown into neglect the pompous court? JAQUES DE BOIS. He hath. JAQUES. To him will I: out of these convertitesThere is much matter to be heard and learn'd. --[To DUKE SENIOR] You to your former honour I bequeath;Your patience and your virtue well deserves it:--[To ORLANDO] You to a love that your true faith doth merit:--[To OLIVER] You to your land, and love, and great allies:--[To SILVIUS] You to a long and well-deserved bed:--[To TOUCHSTONE] And you to wrangling; for thy loving voyageIs but for two months victuall'd. --So to your pleasures;I am for other than for dancing measures. DUKE SENIOR. Stay, Jaques, stay. JAQUES. To see no pastime I; what you would haveI'll stay to know at your abandon'd cave. [Exit. ]DUKE SENIOR. Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,As we do trust they'll end, in true delights. [A dance. ]EPILOGUEROSALIND. It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; butit is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a goodplay needs no epilogue. Yet to good wine they do use good bushes;and good plays prove the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case am I in, then, that am neither a good epilogue norcannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play! I am notfurnished like a beggar; therefore to beg will not become me: myway is to conjure you; and I'll begin with the women. I chargeyou, O women, for the love you bear to men, to like as much ofthis play as please you: and I charge you, O men, for the loveyou bear to women;--as I perceive by your simpering, none of youhates them,--that between you and the women the play may please. If I were a woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards thatpleased me, complexions that liked me, and breaths that I defiednot; and, I am sure, as many as have good beards, or good faces,or sweet breaths, will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy,bid me farewell. [Exeunt. ]End of Project Gutenberg Etext of As You Like It by ShakespearePG has multiple editions of William Shakespeare's Complete Works

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Kramer, AttorneyInternet (72600. 2026@compuserve. com); TEL: (212-254-5093)**** SMALL PRINT! FOR __ COMPLETE SHAKESPEARE ****["Small Print" V. 12. 08. 93]<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>1606THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEARby William ShakespeareDramatis Personae Lear, King of Britain. King of France. Duke of Burgundy. Duke of Cornwall. Duke of Albany. Earl of Kent. Earl of Gloucester. Edgar, son of Gloucester. Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester. Curan, a courtier. Old Man, tenant to Gloucester. Doctor. Lear's Fool. Oswald, steward to Goneril. A Captain under Edmund's command. Gentlemen. A Herald. Servants to Cornwall. Goneril, daughter to Lear. Regan, daughter to Lear. Cordelia, daughter to Lear. Knights attending on Lear, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers, Attendants. <<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>Scene: - Britain. ACT I. Scene I. [King Lear's Palace. ]Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund. [Kent and Glouceste converse. Edmund stands back. ] Kent. I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albanythan Cornwall. Glou. It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division ofthe kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most,for equalities are so weigh'd that curiosity in neither can make choice of either's moiety. Kent. Is not this your son, my lord? Glou. His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have sooften blush'd to acknowledge him that now I am braz'd to't. Kent. I cannot conceive you. Glou. Sir, this young fellow's mother could; whereupon she grew round-womb'd, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ereshe had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault? Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper. Glou. But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elderthan this, who yet is no dearer in my account. Though this knavecame something saucily into the world before he was sent for, yetwas his mother fair, there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. - Do you know this noblegentleman, Edmund? Edm. [comes forward] No, my lord. Glou. My Lord of Kent. Remember him hereafter as my honourable friend. Edm. My services to your lordship. Kent. I must love you, and sue to know you better. Edm. Sir, I shall study deserving. Glou. He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. Sound a sennet. The King is coming. Enter one bearing a coronet; then Lear; then the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall; next, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, with Followers. Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester. Glou. I shall, my liege. Exeunt [Gloucester and Edmund]. Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know we have divided In three our kingdom; and 'tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths while we Unburthen'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters (Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state), Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril, Our eldest-born, speak first. Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter; Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found; A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable. Beyond all manner of so much I love you. Cor. [aside] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent. Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue Be this perpetual. - What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak. Reg. Sir, I am made Of the selfsame metal that my sister is, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And find I am alone felicitate In your dear Highness' love. Cor. [aside] Then poor Cordelia! And yet not so; since I am sure my love's More richer than my tongue. Lear. To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr'd on Goneril. - Now, our joy, Although the last, not least; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interest; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak. Cor. Nothing, my lord. Lear. Nothing? Cor. Nothing. Lear. Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again. Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth.

I love your Majesty According to my bond; no more nor less. Lear. How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Lest it may mar your fortunes. Cor. Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, lov'd me; I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty. Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all. Lear. But goes thy heart with this? Cor. Ay, good my lord. Lear. So young, and so untender? Cor. So young, my lord, and true. Lear. Let it be so! thy truth then be thy dower! For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and reliev'd, As thou my sometime daughter. Kent. Good my liege- Lear. Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. - Hence and avoid my sight! - So be my grave my peace as here I give Her father's heart from her! Call France! Who stirs? Call Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters' dowers digest this third; Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly in my power, Preeminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights, By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain The name, and all th' additions to a king. The sway, Revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm, This coronet part betwixt you. Kent. Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour'd as my king, Lov'd as my father, as my master follow'd, As my great patron thought on in my prayers- Lear. The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft. Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart! Be Kent unmannerly When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy doom; And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness. Answer my life my judgment, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least, Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness. Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more! Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive. Lear. Out of my sight! Kent. See better, Lear, and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye. Lear. Now by Apollo- Kent. Now by Apollo, King, Thou swear'st thy gods in vain. Lear. O vassal! miscreant! [Lays his hand on his sword. ] Alb. , Corn. Dear sir, forbear! Kent. Do! Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I'll tell thee thou dost evil. Lear. Hear me, recreant! On thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow- Which we durst never yet- and with strain'd pride To come between our sentence and our power,- Which nor our nature nor our place can bear,- Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision To shield thee from diseases of the world, And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom. If, on the tenth day following, Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter, This shall not be revok'd. Kent. Fare thee well, King. Since thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [To Cordelia] The gods to their dear shelter take thee,maid, That justly think'st and hast most rightly said! [To Regan and Goneril] And your large speeches may yourdeeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; He'll shape his old course in a country new. Exit. Flourish. Enter Gloucester, with France and Burgundy;Attendants. Glou. Here's France and Burgundy, my noble lord. Lear. My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivall'd for our daughter. What in the least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love? Bur. Most royal Majesty, I crave no more than hath your Highness offer'd, Nor will you tender less. Lear. Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands. If aught within that little seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd, And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace, She's there, and she is yours. Bur. I know no answer. Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dow'r'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath, Take her, or leave her? Bur. Pardon me, royal sir. Election makes not up on such conditions. Lear. Then leave her, sir; for, by the pow'r that made me, I tell you all her wealth. [To France] For you, great King, I would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you T' avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom nature is asham'd Almost t' acknowledge hers. France. This is most strange, That she that even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection Fall'n into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should never plant in me. Cor. I yet beseech your Majesty, If for I want that glib and oily art To speak and purpose not, since what I well intend, I'll do't before I speak- that you make known It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonoured step, That hath depriv'd me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for which I am richer- A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking. Lear. Better thou Hadst not been born than not t' have pleas'd me better. France. Is it but this- a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do? My Lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love's not love When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from th' entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry. Bur. Royal Lear, Give but that portion which yourself propos'd, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy. Lear. Nothing! I have sworn; I am firm. Bur. I am sorry then you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband. Cor. Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respects of fortune are his love, I shall not be his wife. France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon. Be it lawful I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflam'd respect. Thy dow'rless daughter, King, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France. Not all the dukes in wat'rish Burgundy Can buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind. Thou losest here, a better where to find. Lear. Thou hast her, France; let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy. Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, [Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester, and Attendants]. France. Bid farewell to your sisters. Cor. The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are; And, like a sister, am most loath to call Your faults as they are nam'd. Use well our father. To your professed bosoms I commit him; But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place! So farewell to you both. Gon. Prescribe not us our duties. Reg. Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath receiv'd you At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted. Cor. Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides. Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. Well may you prosper! France. Come, my fair Cordelia. Exeunt France and Cordelia. Gon. Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will henceto-night. Reg. That's most certain, and with you; next month with us. Gon. You see how full of changes his age is. The observation we have made of it hath not been little. He always lov'd our sister most, and with what poor judgment he hath now casther off appears too grossly. Reg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever butslenderly known himself. Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-ingraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bringwith them. Reg. Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him asthis of Kent's banishment. Gon. There is further compliment of leave-taking between Franceand him. Pray you let's hit together. If our father carryauthority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender ofhis will but offend us. Reg. We shall further think on't. Gon. We must do something, and i' th' heat. Exeunt. Scene II. The Earl of Gloucester's Castle. Enter [Edmund the] Bastard solus, [with a letter]. Edm. Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me, For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base? When my dimensions are as well compact, My mind as generous, and my shape as true, As honest madam's issue? Why brand they us With base? with baseness? bastardy?

base, base? Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take More composition and fierce quality Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed, Go to th' creating a whole tribe of fops Got 'tween asleep and wake? Well then, Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land. Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund As to th' legitimate. Fine word- 'legitimate'! Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed, And my invention thrive, Edmund the base Shall top th' legitimate. I grow; I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Enter Gloucester. Glou. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choler parted? And the King gone to-night? subscrib'd his pow'r? Confin'd to exhibition? All this done Upon the gad? Edmund, how now? What news? Edm. So please your lordship, none. [Puts up the letter. ] Glou. Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter? Edm. I know no news, my lord. Glou. What paper were you reading? Edm. Nothing, my lord. Glou. No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it intoyour pocket? The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let's see. Come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles. Edm. I beseech you, sir, pardon me. It is a letter from mybrother that I have not all o'er-read; and for so much as I have perus'd, I find it not fit for your o'erlooking. Glou. Give me the letter, sir. Edm. I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents,as in part I understand them, are to blame. Glou. Let's see, let's see! Edm. I hope, for my brother's justification, he wrote this butas an essay or taste of my virtue. Glou. (reads) 'This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, whosways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me,that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I wak'd him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, andlive the beloved of your brother, 'EDGAR. ' Hum! Conspiracy? 'Sleep till I wak'd him, you should enjoyhalf his revenue. ' My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? aheart and brain to breed it in? When came this to you? Who broughtit? Edm. It was not brought me, my lord: there's the cunning of it. I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet. Glou. You know the character to be your brother's? Edm. If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it werehis; but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not. Glou. It is his. Edm. It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not inthe contents. Glou. Hath he never before sounded you in this business? Edm. Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to befit that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declining, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage hisrevenue. Glou. O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him. I'll apprehend him. Abominable villain! Where is he? Edm. I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you tosuspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive fromhim better testimony of his intent, you should run a certaincourse; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour andshake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down mylife for him that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other pretence of danger. Glou. Think you so? Edm. If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where youshall hear us confer of this and by an auricular assurance haveyour satisfaction, and that without any further delay than thisvery evening. Glou. He cannot be such a monster. Edm. Nor is not, sure. Glou. To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, Ipray you; frame the business after your own wisdom. I wouldunstate myself to be in a due resolution. Edm. I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal. Glou. These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no goodto us. Though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus,yet nature finds itself scourg'd by the sequent effects. Lovecools, friendship falls off, brothers divide. In cities, mutinies;in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bondcrack'd 'twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there's son against father: the King falls frombias of nature; there's father against child. We have seen thebest of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. Findout this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it carefully. And the noble and true-hearted Kent banish'd! his offence, honesty! 'Tis strange. Exit. Edm. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when weare sick in fortune, often the surfeit of our own behaviour, wemake guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; asif we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical pre-dominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforc'd obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by adivine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whore-master man, tolay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's Tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am roughand lecherous. Fut! I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on mybastardizing. Edgar- Enter Edgar. and pat! he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy. My cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o'Bedlam. O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la,mi. Edg. How now, brother Edmund? What serious contemplation areyou in? Edm. I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this otherday, what should follow these eclipses. Edg. Do you busy yourself with that? Edm. I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily:as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against king and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what. Edg. How long have you been a sectary astronomical? Edm. Come, come! When saw you my father last? Edg. The night gone by. Edm. Spake you with him? Edg. Ay, two hours together. Edm. Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in himby word or countenance Edg. None at all. Edm. Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him; and atmy entreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure, which at this instantso rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay. Edg. Some villain hath done me wrong. Edm. That's my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearancetill the speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retirewith me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak. Pray ye, go! There's my key. If you do stirabroad, go arm'd. Edg. Arm'd, brother? Edm. Brother, I advise you to the best. Go arm'd. I am nohonest man if there be any good meaning toward you. I have told youwhat I have seen and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image and horror of it. Pray you, away! Edg. Shall I hear from you anon? Edm. I do serve you in this business. Exit Edgar. A credulous father! and a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty My practices ride easy! I see the business. Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit; All with me's meet that I can fashion fit. Exit. Scene III. The Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Goneril and [her] Steward [Oswald]. Gon. Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool? Osw. Ay, madam. Gon. By day and night, he wrongs me! Every hour He flashes into one gross crime or other That sets us all at odds. I'll not endure it. His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us On every trifle. When he returns from hunting, I will not speak with him. Say I am sick. If you come slack of former services, You shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer. [Horns within. ] Osw. He's coming, madam; I hear him. Gon. Put on what weary negligence you please, You and your fellows. I'd have it come to question.

If he distaste it, let him to our sister, Whose mind and mine I know in that are one, Not to be overrul'd. Idle old man, That still would manage those authorities That he hath given away! Now, by my life, Old fools are babes again, and must be us'd With checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus'd. Remember what I have said. Osw. Very well, madam. Gon. And let his knights have colder looks among you. What grows of it, no matter. Advise your fellows so. I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall, That I may speak. I'll write straight to my sister To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner. Exeunt. Scene IV. The Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Kent, [disguised]. Kent. If but as well I other accents borrow, That can my speech defuse, my good intent May carry through itself to that full issue For which I raz'd my likeness. Now, banish'd Kent, If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn'd, So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov'st, Shall find thee full of labours. Horns within. Enter Lear, [Knights,] and Attendants. Lear. Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready. [Exit an Attendant. ] How now? What art thou? Kent. A man, sir. Lear. What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us? Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem, to serve himtruly that will put me in trust, to love him that is honest, to converse with him that is wise and says little, to fear judgment, to fight when I cannot choose, and to eat no fish. Lear. What art thou? Kent. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King. Lear. If thou be'st as poor for a subject as he's for a king,thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou? Kent. Service. Lear. Who wouldst thou serve? Kent. You. Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow? Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which Iwould fain call master. Lear. What's that? Kent. Authority. Lear. What services canst thou do? Kent. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious talein telling it and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best ofme is diligence. Lear. How old art thou? Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor soold to dote on her for anything. I have years on my backforty-eight. Lear. Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no worseafter dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where's my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither. [Exit an attendant. ] Enter [Oswald the] Steward. You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter? Osw. So please you- Exit. Lear. What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back. [Exit a Knight. ] Where's my fool, ho? I think the world's asleep. [Enter Knight] How now? Where's that mongrel? Knight. He says, my lord, your daughter is not well. Lear. Why came not the slave back to me when I call'd him? Knight. Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he wouldnot. Lear. He would not? Knight. My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to myjudgment your Highness is not entertain'd with that ceremoniousaffection as you were wont. There's a great abatement of kindnessappears as well in the general dependants as in the Duke himselfalso and your daughter. Lear. Ha! say'st thou so? Knight. I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your Highness wrong'd. Lear. Thou but rememb'rest me of mine own conception. I have perceived a most faint neglect of late, which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness. I will look further into't. But where's my fool? I have not seen him this two days. Knight. Since my young lady's going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away. Lear. No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her. [Exit Knight. ] Go you, call hither my fool. [Exit an Attendant. ] Enter [Oswald the] Steward. O, you, sir, you! Come you hither, sir. Who am I, sir? Osw. My lady's father. Lear. 'My lady's father'? My lord's knave! You whoreson dog! you slave! you cur! Osw. I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon. Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal? [Strikes him. ] Osw. I'll not be strucken, my lord. Kent. Nor tripp'd neither, you base football player? [Trips up his heels. Lear. I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv'st me, and I'll lovethee. Kent. Come, sir, arise, away! I'll teach you differences. Away, away! If you will measure your lubber's length again, tarry;but away! Go to! Have you wisdom? So. [Pushes him out. ] Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee. There's earnest ofthy service. [Gives money. ] Enter Fool. Fool. Let me hire him too. Here's my coxcomb. [Offers Kent his cap. ] Lear. How now, my pretty knave? How dost thou? Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb. Kent. Why, fool? Fool. Why? For taking one's part that's out of favour. Nay, anthou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch coldshortly. There, take my coxcomb! Why, this fellow hath banish'd twoon's daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will. If thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb. - How now, nuncle? Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters! Lear. Why, my boy? Fool. If I gave them all my living, I'ld keep my coxcombsmyself. There's mine! beg another of thy daughters. Lear. Take heed, sirrah- the whip. Fool. Truth's a dog must to kennel; he must be whipp'd out,when Lady the brach may stand by th' fire and stink. Lear. A pestilent gall to me! Fool. Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech. Lear. Do. Fool. Mark it, nuncle. Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door, And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score. Kent. This is nothing, fool. Fool. Then 'tis like the breath of an unfeed lawyer- you gaveme nothing for't. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle? Lear. Why, no, boy. Nothing can be made out of nothing. Fool. [to Kent] Prithee tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to.

He will not believe a fool. Lear. A bitter fool! Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet fool? Lear. No, lad; teach me. Fool. That lord that counsell'd thee To give away thy land, Come place him here by me- Do thou for him stand. The sweet and bitter fool Will presently appear; The one in motley here, The other found out there. Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy? Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with. Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord. Fool. No, faith; lords and great men will not let me. If I hada monopoly out, they would have part on't. And ladies too,they will not let me have all the fool to myself; they'll be snatching. Give me an egg, nuncle, and I'll give thee two crowns. Lear. What two crowns shall they be? Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i' th' middle and eat upthe meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crowni' th' middle and gav'st away both parts, thou bor'st thine asson thy back o'er the dirt. Thou hadst little wit in thy baldcrown when thou gav'st thy golden one away. If I speak like myselfin this, let him be whipp'd that first finds it so. [Sings] Fools had ne'er less grace in a year, For wise men are grown foppish; They know not how their wits to wear, Their manners are so apish. Lear. When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah? Fool. I have us'd it, nuncle, ever since thou mad'st thydaughters thy mother; for when thou gav'st them the rod, and put'stdown thine own breeches, [Sings] Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung, That such a king should play bo-peep And go the fools among. Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy foolto lie. I would fain learn to lie. Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipp'd. Fool. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are. They'llhave me whipp'd for speaking true; thou'lt have me whipp'd forlying; and sometimes I am whipp'd for holding my peace. I hadrather be any kind o' thing than a fool! And yet I would not be thee, nuncle. Thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides and leftnothing i' th' middle. Here comes one o' the parings. Enter Goneril. Lear. How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinksyou are too much o' late i' th' frown. Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to carefor her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure. I ambetter than thou art now: I am a fool, thou art nothing. [To Goneril] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So yourface bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum! He that keeps nor crust nor crum, Weary of all, shall want some. - [Points at Lear] That's a sheal'd peascod. Gon. Not only, sir, this your all-licens'd fool, But other of your insolent retinue Do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, I had thought, by making this well known unto you, To have found a safe redress, but now grow fearful, By what yourself, too, late have spoke and done, That you protect this course, and put it on By your allowance; which if you should, the fault Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, Might in their working do you that offence Which else were shame, that then necessity Must call discreet proceeding. Fool. For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long That it had it head bit off by it young. So out went the candle, and we were left darkling. Lear. Are you our daughter? Gon. Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom Whereof I know you are fraught, and put away These dispositions that of late transform you From what you rightly are. Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug, I love thee! Lear. Doth any here know me? This is not Lear. Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his discernings Are lethargied- Ha! waking? 'Tis not so! Who is it that can tell me who I am? Fool. Lear's shadow. Lear. I would learn that; for, by the marks of sovereignty, Knowledge, and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters. Fool. Which they will make an obedient father. Lear. Your name, fair gentlewoman? Gon. This admiration, sir, is much o' th' savour Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright. As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd, and bold That this our court, infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust Make it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a grac'd palace. The shame itself doth speak For instant remedy. Be then desir'd By her that else will take the thing she begs A little to disquantity your train, And the remainder that shall still depend To be such men as may besort your age, Which know themselves, and you. Lear. Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses! Call my train together! Degenerate bastard, I'll not trouble thee; Yet have I left a daughter. Gon. You strike my people, and your disorder'd rabble Make servants of their betters. Enter Albany. Lear. Woe that too late repents! - O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir! - Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child Than the sea-monster! Alb. Pray, sir, be patient. Lear. [to Goneril] Detested kite, thou liest! My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of duty know And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name. - O most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature From the fix'd place; drew from my heart all love And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! Beat at this gate that let thy folly in [Strikes his head. ] And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people. Alb. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath mov'd you. Lear. It may be so, my lord. Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful. Into her womb convey sterility; Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her. Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt, that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child! Away, away! Exit. Alb. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this? Gon. Never afflict yourself to know the cause; But let his disposition have that scope That dotage gives it. Enter Lear. Lear. What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight? Alb. What's the matter, sir? Lear. I'll tell thee. [To Goneril] Life and death! I am asham'd That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th' untented woundings of a father's curse Pierce every sense about thee! - Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck ye out, And cast you, with the waters that you lose, To temper clay. Yea, is it come to this? Let it be so. Yet have I left a daughter, Who I am sure is kind and comfortable. When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails She'll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I'll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever; thou shalt, I warrant thee. Exeunt [Lear, Kent, and Attendants]. Gon. Do you mark that, my lord? Alb. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you - Gon. Pray you, content. - What, Oswald, ho! [To the Fool] You, sir, more knave than fool, after yourmaster! Fool. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry! Take the fool with thee. A fox when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter. So the fool follows after. Exit. Gon. This man hath had good counsel! A hundred knights? 'Tis politic and safe to let him keep At point a hundred knights; yes, that on every dream, Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, He may enguard his dotage with their pow'rs And hold our lives in mercy. - Oswald, I say! Alb. Well, you may fear too far. Gon. Safer than trust too far. Let me still take away the harms I fear, Not fear still to be taken. I know his heart. What he hath utter'd I have writ my sister. If she sustain him and his hundred knights, When I have show'd th' unfitness- Enter [Oswald the] Steward. How now, Oswald? What, have you writ that letter to my sister? Osw. Yes, madam. Gon. Take you some company, and away to horse! Inform her full of my particular fear, And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it more. Get you gone, And hasten your return. [Exit Oswald. ] No, no, my lord! This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn it not, yet, under pardon, You are much more at task for want of wisdom Than prais'd for harmful mildness. Alb. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell. Striving to better, oft we mar what's well. Gon. Nay then- Alb. Well, well; th' event. Exeunt. Scene V.

Court before the Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. Lear. Go you before to Gloucester with these letters. Acquaintmy daughter no further with anything you know than comes fromher demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you. Kent. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered yourletter. Exit. Fool. If a man's brains were in's heels, were't not in dangerof kibes? Lear. Ay, boy. Fool. Then I prithee be merry. Thy wit shall ne'er goslip-shod. Lear. Ha, ha, ha! Fool. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly; forthough she's as like this as a crab's like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell. Lear. What canst tell, boy? Fool. She'll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one's nose stands i' th' middle on's face? Lear. No. Fool. Why, to keep one's eyes of either side's nose, that whata man cannot smell out, 'a may spy into. Lear. I did her wrong. Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell? Lear. No. Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house. Lear. Why? Fool. Why, to put's head in; not to give it away to hisdaughters, and leave his horns without a case. Lear. I will forget my nature. So kind a father! - Be my horses ready? Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the sevenstars are no moe than seven is a pretty reason. Lear. Because they are not eight? Fool. Yes indeed. Thou wouldst make a good fool. Lear. To tak't again perforce! Monster ingratitude! Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'ld have thee beaten forbeing old before thy time. Lear. How's that? Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst beenwise. Lear. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad! [Enter a Gentleman. ] How now? Are the horses ready? Gent. Ready, my lord. Lear. Come, boy. Fool. She that's a maid now, and laughs at my departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter Exeunt. <<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>ACT II. Scene I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester. Enter [Edmund the] Bastard and Curan, meeting. Edm. Save thee, Curan. Cur. And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess willbe here with him this night. Edm. How comes that? Cur. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad- I meanthe whisper'd ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments? Edm. Not I. Pray you, what are they? Cur. Have you heard of no likely wars toward 'twixt the twoDukes of Cornwall and Albany? Edm. Not a word. Cur. You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir. Exit. Edm. The Duke be here to-night? The better! best! This weaves itself perforce into my business. My father hath set guard to take my brother; And I have one thing, of a queasy question, Which I must act. Briefness and fortune, work! Brother, a word! Descend! Brother, I say! Enter Edgar. My father watches. O sir, fly this place! Intelligence is given where you are hid. You have now the good advantage of the night. Have you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall? He's coming hither; now, i' th' night, i' th' haste, And Regan with him. Have you nothing said Upon his party 'gainst the Duke of Albany? Advise yourself. Edg. I am sure on't, not a word. Edm. I hear my father coming. Pardon me! In cunning I must draw my sword upon you. Draw, seem to defend yourself; now quit you well. - Yield! Come before my father. Light, ho, here! Fly, brother. - Torches, torches! - So farewell. Exit Edgar. Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeavour. [Stabs his arm. ] I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport. - Father, father! - Stop, stop! No help? Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches. Glou. Now, Edmund, where's the villain? Edm. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand 's auspicious mistress. Glou. But where is he? Edm. Look, sir, I bleed. Glou. Where is the villain, Edmund? Edm. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could- Glou. Pursue him, ho! Go after. [Exeunt some Servants]. By no means what? Edm. Persuade me to the murther of your lordship; But that I told him the revenging gods 'Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to th' father- sir, in fine, Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion With his prepared sword he charges home My unprovided body, lanch'd mine arm; But when he saw my best alarum'd spirits, Bold in the quarrel's right, rous'd to th' encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled. Glou. Let him fly far. Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; And found- dispatch. The noble Duke my master, My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night. By his authority I will proclaim it That he which find, him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous caitiff to the stake; He that conceals him, death. Edm. When I dissuaded him from his intent And found him pight to do it, with curst speech I threaten'd to discover him. He replied, 'Thou unpossessing bastard, dost thou think, If I would stand against thee, would the reposal Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee Make thy words faith'd? No. What I should deny (As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce My very character), I'ld turn it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice; And thou must make a dullard of the world, If they not thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potential spurs To make thee seek it. ' Glou. Strong and fast'ned villain! Would he deny his letter? I never got him. Tucket within. Hark, the Duke's trumpets! I know not why he comes. All ports I'll bar; the villain shall not scape; The Duke must grant me that. Besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom May have due note of him, and of my land, Loyal and natural boy, I'll work the means To make thee capable. Enter Cornwall, Regan, and Attendants. Corn. How now, my noble friend? Since I came hither (Which I can call but now) I have heard strange news. Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th' offender. How dost, my lord? Glou. O madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd! Reg. What, did my father's godson seek your life? He whom my father nam'd? Your Edgar? Glou. O lady, lady, shame would have it hid! Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father? Glou. I know not, madam. 'Tis too bad, too bad! Edm. Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

Reg. No marvel then though he were ill affected. 'Tis they have put him on the old man's death, To have th' expense and waste of his revenues. I have this present evening from my sister Been well inform'd of them, and with such cautions That, if they come to sojourn at my house, I'll not be there. Corn. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office. Edm. 'Twas my duty, sir. Glou. He did bewray his practice, and receiv'd This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him. Corn. Is he pursued? Glou. Ay, my good lord. Corn. If he be taken, he shall never more Be fear'd of doing harm. Make your own purpose, How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund, Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant So much commend itself, you shall be ours. Natures of such deep trust we shall much need; You we first seize on. Edm. I shall serve you, sir, Truly, however else. Glou. For him I thank your Grace. Corn. You know not why we came to visit you- Reg. Thus out of season, threading dark-ey'd night. Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise, Wherein we must have use of your advice. Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, Of differences, which I best thought it fit To answer from our home. The several messengers From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom, and bestow Your needful counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use. Glou. I serve you, madam. Your Graces are right welcome. Exeunt. Flourish. Scene II. Before Gloucester's Castle. Enter Kent and [Oswald the] Steward, severally. Osw. Good dawning to thee, friend. Art of this house? Kent. Ay. Osw. Where may we set our horses? Kent. I' th' mire. Osw. Prithee, if thou lov'st me, tell me. Kent. I love thee not. Osw. Why then, I care not for thee. Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make thee carefor me. Osw. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not. Kent. Fellow, I know thee. Osw. What dost thou know me for? Kent. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base,proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking,whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd inway of good service, and art nothing but the composition of aknave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrelbitch; one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou denythe least syllable of thy addition. Osw. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that's neither known of thee nor knows thee! Kent. What a brazen-fac'd varlet art thou, to deny thou knowestme! Is it two days ago since I beat thee and tripp'd up thyheels before the King? [Draws his sword. ] Draw, you rogue! for,though it be night, yet the moon shines. I'll make a sop o' th' moonshine o' you. Draw, you whoreson cullionly barbermonger! draw! Osw. Away! I have nothing to do with thee. Kent. Draw, you rascal! You come with letters against the King,and take Vanity the puppet's part against the royalty of herfather. Draw, you rogue, or I'll so carbonado your shanks! Draw, you rascal! Come your ways! Osw. Help, ho! murther! help! Kent. Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue! Stand, you neat slave! Strike! [Beats him. ] Osw. Help, ho! murther! murther! Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Gloucester, Cornwall, Regan, Servants. Edm. How now? What's the matter? Parts [them]. Kent. With you, goodman boy, an you please! Come, I'll fleshye! Come on, young master! Glou. Weapons? arms? What's the matter here? Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives! He dies that strikes again. What is the matter? Reg. The messengers from our sister and the King Corn. What is your difference? Speak. Osw. I am scarce in breath, my lord. Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirr'd your valour. Youcowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee. Corn. Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man? Kent. Ay, a tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could nothave made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at thetrade. Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel? Osw. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spar'd At suit of his grey beard- Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you'll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villaininto mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. 'Spare mygrey beard,' you wagtail? Corn. Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence? Kent. Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege. Corn. Why art thou angry? Kent. That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords atwain Which are too intrinse t' unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel, Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing naught (like dogs) but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, an I had you upon Sarum Plain, I'ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot. Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow? Glou. How fell you out? Say that. Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave. Corn. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault? Kent. His countenance likes me not. Corn. No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers. Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain. I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant. Corn. This is some fellow Who, having been prais'd for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature. He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain- he must speak truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he's plain. These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely. Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th' allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus' front- Corn. What mean'st by this? Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer. He that beguil'd you in aplain accent was a plain knave, which, for my part, I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to't. Corn. What was th' offence you gave him? Osw. I never gave him any. It pleas'd the King his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure, Tripp'd me behind; being down, insulted, rail'd And put upon him such a deal of man That worthied him, got praises of the King For him attempting who was self-subdu'd; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Drew on me here again. Kent. None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool. Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart, We'll teach you- Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn. Call not your stocks for me. I serve the King; On whose employment I was sent to you. You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger. Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, There shall he sit till noon. Reg. Till noon? Till night, my lord, and all night too! Kent.

Why, madam, if I were your father's dog, You should not use me so. Reg. Sir, being his knave, I will. Corn. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks! Stocks brought out. Glou. Let me beseech your Grace not to do so. His fault is much, and the good King his master Will check him for't. Your purpos'd low correction Is such as basest and contemn'dest wretches For pilf'rings and most common trespasses Are punish'd with. The King must take it ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrain'd. Corn. I'll answer that. Reg. My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abus'd, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put in his legs. - [Kent is put in the stocks. ] Come, my good lord, away. Exeunt [all but Gloucester and Kent]. Glou. I am sorry for thee, friend. 'Tis the Duke's pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be rubb'd nor stopp'd. I'll entreat for thee. Kent. Pray do not, sir. I have watch'd and travell'd hard. Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle. A good man's fortune may grow out at heels. Give you good morrow! Glou. The Duke 's to blame in this; 'twill be ill taken. Exit. Kent. Good King, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven's benediction com'st To the warm sun! Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But misery. I know 'tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform'd Of my obscured course- and [reads] 'shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies'- All weary and o'erwatch'd, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night; smile once more, turn thy wheel. Sleeps. Scene III. The open country. Enter Edgar. Edg. I heard myself proclaim'd, And by the happy hollow of a tree Escap'd the hunt. No port is free, no place That guard and most unusual vigilance Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape, I will preserve myself; and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury, in contempt of man, Brought near to beast. My face I'll grime with filth, Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots, And with presented nakedness outface The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numb'd and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheepcotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. 'Poor Turlygod! poor Tom! ' That's something yet! Edgar I nothing am. Exit. Scene IV. Before Gloucester's Castle; Kent in the stocks. Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman. Lear. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger. Gent. As I learn'd, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove. Kent. Hail to thee, noble master! Lear. Ha! Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime? Kent. No, my lord. Fool. Ha, ha! look! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied bythe head, dogs and bears by th' neck, monkeys by th' loins, andmen by th' legs. When a man's over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks. Lear. What's he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here? Kent. It is both he and she- Your son and daughter. Lear. No. Kent. Yes. Lear. No, I say. Kent. I say yea. Lear. No, no, they would not! Kent. Yes, they have. Lear. By Jupiter, I swear no! Kent. By Juno, I swear ay! Lear. They durst not do't; They would not, could not do't. 'Tis worse than murther To do upon respect such violent outrage. Resolve me with all modest haste which way Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us. Kent. My lord, when at their home I did commend your Highness' letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place that show'd My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stew'd in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress salutations; Deliver'd letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they read; on whose contents, They summon'd up their meiny, straight took horse, Commanded me to follow and attend The leisure of their answer, gave me cold looks, And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome I perceiv'd had poison'd mine- Being the very fellow which of late Display'd so saucily against your Highness- Having more man than wit about me, drew. He rais'd the house with loud and coward cries. Your son and daughter found this trespass worth The shame which here it suffers. Fool. Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind; But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne'er turns the key to th' poor. But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year. Lear. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! Hysterica passio! Down, thou climbing sorrow! Thy element's below! Where is this daughter? Kent. With the Earl, sir, here within. Lear. Follow me not; Stay here. Exit. Gent. Made you no more offence but what you speak of? Kent. None. How chance the King comes with so small a number? Fool. An thou hadst been set i' th' stocks for that question, thou'dst well deserv'd it. Kent. Why, fool? Fool. We'll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there'sno labouring i' th' winter. All that follow their noses are ledby their eyes but blind men, and there's not a nose amongtwenty but can smell him that's stinking. Let go thy hold when agreat wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck withfollowing it; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw theeafter. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mineagain. I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it. 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. But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly. The knave turns fool that runs away; The fool no knave, perdy. Kent. Where learn'd you this, fool? Fool. Not i' th' stocks, fool. Enter Lear and Gloucester Lear. Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary? They have travell'd all the night? Mere fetches- The images of revolt and flying off! Fetch me a better answer. Glou. My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke, How unremovable and fix'd he is In his own course. Lear. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I'ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife. Glou. Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so. Lear. Inform'd them? Dost thou understand me, man? Glou. Ay, my good lord. Lear. The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service. Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? the fiery Duke? Tell the hot Duke that- No, but not yet! May be he is not well. Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound. We are not ourselves When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind To suffer with the body. I'll forbear; And am fallen out with my more headier will, To take the indispos'd and sickly fit For the sound man. - Death on my state! Wherefore Should he sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the Duke and her Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the Duke and 's wife I'ld speak with them- Now, presently. Bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber door I'll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death. Glou. I would have all well betwixt you. Exit. Lear. O me, my heart, my rising heart! But down! Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels whenshe put 'em i' th' paste alive. She knapp'd 'em o' th' coxcombswith a stick and cried 'Down, wantons, down! ' 'Twas her brotherthat, in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, Servants. Lear. Good morrow to you both. Corn. Hail to your Grace! Kent here set at liberty. Reg. I am glad to see your Highness. Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so. If thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb, Sepulchring an adultress. [To Kent] O, are you free?

Some other time for that. - Beloved Regan, Thy sister's naught. O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here! [Lays his hand on his heart. ] I can scarce speak to thee. Thou'lt not believe With how deprav'd a quality- O Regan! Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty. Lear. Say, how is that? Reg. I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance She have restrain'd the riots of your followers, 'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame. Lear. My curses on her! Reg. O, sir, you are old! Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine. You should be rul'd, and led By some discretion that discerns your state Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you That to our sister you do make return; Say you have wrong'd her, sir. Lear. Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house: 'Dear daughter, I confess that I am old. [Kneels. ] Age is unnecessary. On my knees I beg That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food. ' Reg. Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks. Return you to my sister. Lear. [rises] Never, Regan! She hath abated me of half my train; Look'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness! Corn. Fie, sir, fie! Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the pow'rful sun, To fall and blast her pride! Reg. O the blest gods! so will you wish on me When the rash mood is on. Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse. Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o'er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine Do comfort, and not burn. 'Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my coming in. Thou better know'st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude. Thy half o' th' kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow'd. Reg. Good sir, to th' purpose. Tucket within. Lear. Who put my man i' th' stocks? Corn. What trumpet's that? Reg. I know't- my sister's. This approves her letter, That she would soon be here. Enter [Oswald the] Steward. Is your lady come? Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrowed pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from my sight! Corn. What means your Grace? Enter Goneril. Lear. Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on't. - Who comes here? O heavens! If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience- if yourselves are old, Make it your cause! Send down, and take my part! [To Goneril] Art not asham'd to look upon this beard? - O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand? Gon. Why not by th' hand, sir? How have I offended? All's not offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so. Lear. O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i' th' stocks? Corn. I set him there, sir; but his own disorders Deserv'd much less advancement. Lear. You? Did you? Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If, till the expiration of your month, You will return and sojourn with my sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me. I am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment. Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o' th' air, To be a comrade with the wolf and owl- Necessity's sharp pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her? Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom. [Points at Oswald. ] Gon. At your choice, sir. Lear. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad. I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell. We'll no more meet, no more see one another. But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that's in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil, A plague sore, an embossed carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee. Let shame come when it will, I do not call it. I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoot Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove. Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure; I can be patient, I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights. Reg. Not altogether so. I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister; For those that mingle reason with your passion Must be content to think you old, and so- But she knows what she does. Lear. Is this well spoken? Reg. I dare avouch it, sir. What, fifty followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more? Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger Speak 'gainst so great a number? How in one house Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? 'Tis hard; almost impossible. Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine? Reg. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc'd to slack ye, We could control them. If you will come to me (For now I spy a danger), I entreat you To bring but five-and-twenty. To no more Will I give place or notice. Lear. I gave you all- Reg. And in good time you gave it! Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty, Regan? Said you so? Reg. And speak't again my lord. No more with me. Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd When others are more wicked; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril] I'll go withthee. Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love. Gon. Hear, me, my lord. What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five, To follow in a house where twice so many Have a command to tend you? Reg. What need one? Lear. O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous. Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady: If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need- You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both. If it be you that stirs these daughters' hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women's weapons, water drops, Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags! I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall- I will do such things- What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the earth! You think I'll weep. No, I'll not weep. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad! Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool. Storm and tempest. Corn. Let us withdraw; 'twill be a storm. Reg. This house is little; the old man and 's people Cannot be well bestow'd. Gon. 'Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly. Reg. For his particular, I'll receive him gladly, But not one follower. Gon. So am I purpos'd. Where is my Lord of Gloucester? Corn. Followed the old man forth. Enter Gloucester. He is return'd. Glou. The King is in high rage. Corn. Whither is he going? Glou. He calls to horse, but will I know not whither. Corn. 'Tis best to give him way; he leads himself. Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay. Glou. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds Do sorely ruffle. For many miles about There's scarce a bush. Reg. O, sir, to wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors. He is attended with a desperate train, And what they may incense him to, being apt To have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids fear.

Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord: 'tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well. Come out o' th' storm. [Exeunt. ]<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>ACT III. Scene I. A heath. Storm still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman at several doors. Kent. Who's there, besides foul weather? Gent. One minded like the weather, most unquietly. Kent. I know you. Where's the King? Gent. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all. Kent. But who is with him? Gent. None but the fool, who labours to outjest His heart-struck injuries. Kent. Sir, I do know you, And dare upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division (Although as yet the face of it be cover'd With mutual cunning) 'twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have (as who have not, that their great stars Thron'd and set high? ) servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes, Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind King, or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings- But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scattered kingdom, who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports and are at point To show their open banner. Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you, making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding, And from some knowledge and assurance offer This office to you. Gent. I will talk further with you. Kent. No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia (As fear not but you shall), show her this ring, And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go seek the King. Gent. Give me your hand. Have you no more to say? Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King (in which your pain That way, I'll this), he that first lights on him Holla the other. Exeunt [severally]. Scene II. Another part of the heath. Storm still. Enter Lear and Fool. Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world, Crack Nature's moulds, all germains spill at once, That makes ingrateful man! Fool. O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better thanthis rain water out o' door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thydaughters blessing! Here's a night pities nether wise men nor fools. Lear. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters. I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man. But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! 'tis foul! Fool. He that has a house to put 's head in has a goodhead-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. Enter Kent. Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing. Kent. Who's there? Fool. Marry, here's grace and a codpiece; that's a wise man anda fool. Kent. Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these. The wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard. Man's nature cannot carry Th' affliction nor the fear. Lear. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp'd of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur'd, and thou simular man of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, in pieces shake That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practis'd on man's life. Close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn'd against than sinning. Kent. Alack, bareheaded? Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest. Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house (More harder than the stones whereof 'tis rais'd, Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in) return, and force Their scanted courtesy. Lear. My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee. Fool. [sings] He that has and a little tiny wit- With hey, ho, the wind and the rain- Must make content with his fortunes fit, For the rain it raineth every day. Lear. True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. Exeunt [Lear and Kent]. Fool. This is a brave night to cool a courtesan. I'll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles are their tailors' tutors, No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors; When every case in law is right, No squire in debt nor no poor knight; When slanders do not live in tongues, Nor cutpurses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i' th' field, And bawds and whores do churches build: Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion. Then comes the time, who lives to see't, That going shall be us'd with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make, for I live before his time. Exit. Scene III. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Gloucester and Edmund. Glou. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing! When I desir'd their leave that I might pity him, they took fromme the use of mine own house, charg'd me on pain of perpetual displeasure neither to speak of him, entreat for him, norany way sustain him. Edm. Most savage and unnatural! Glou. Go to; say you nothing. There is division betwixt theDukes, and a worse matter than that. I have received a letter this night- 'tis dangerous to be spoken- I have lock'd the letterin my closet. These injuries the King now bears will berevenged home; there's part of a power already footed; we mustincline to the King. I will seek him and privily relieve him. Go youand maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask for me, I am ill and gone to bed. Though I die for't, as no less is threat'ned me, the King my oldmaster must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward,Edmund. Pray you be careful. Exit. Edm. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know, and of that letter too. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses- no less than all. The younger rises when the old doth fall. Exit. Scene IV. The heath. Before a hovel. Storm still. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. Kent. Here is the place, my lord. Good my lord, enter. The tyranny of the open night 's too rough For nature to endure. Lear. Let me alone. Kent. Good my lord, enter here. Lear. Wilt break my heart? Kent. I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter. Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the skin. So 'tis to thee; But where the greater malady is fix'd, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, Thou'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth. When the mind's free, The body's delicate. The tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to't? But I will punish home! No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all! O, that way madness lies; let me shun that! No more of that. Kent. Good my lord, enter here. Lear. Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease. This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I'll go in. [To the Fool] In, boy; go first. - You houseless poverty- Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. Exit [Fool]. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just. Edg. [within] Fathom and half, fathom and half!

Poor Tom! Enter Fool [from the hovel]. Fool. Come not in here, nuncle, here's a spirit. Help me, helpme! Kent. Give me thy hand. Who's there? Fool. A spirit, a spirit! He says his name's poor Tom. Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i' th' straw? Come forth. Enter Edgar [disguised as a madman]. Edg. Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharphawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warmthee. Lear. Hast thou given all to thy two daughters, and art thoucome to this? Edg. Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hathled through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool,o'er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge, made himproud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inch'd bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thyfive wits! Tom 's acold. O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom somecharity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now- andthere- and there again- and there! Storm still. Lear. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass? Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give 'em all? Fool. Nay, he reserv'd a blanket, else we had been all sham'd. Lear. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters! Kent. He hath no daughters, sir. Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu'd nature To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? Judicious punishment! 'Twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters. Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock's Hill. 'Allow, 'allow, loo,loo! Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen. Edg. Take heed o' th' foul fiend; obey thy parents: keep thyword justly; swear not; commit not with man's sworn spouse; setnot thy sweet heart on proud array. Tom 's acold. Lear. What hast thou been? Edg. A servingman, proud in heart and mind; that curl'd myhair, wore gloves in my cap; serv'd the lust of my mistress' heartand did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as Ispake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven; one that slept in the contriving of lust, and wak'd to do it. Winelov'd I deeply, dice dearly; and in woman out-paramour'd the Turk. False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth,fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion inprey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silksbetray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothel, thyhand out of placket, thy pen from lender's book, and defy thefoul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind; says suum, mun, hey, no, nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa! let him trot by. Storm still. Lear. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer withthy uncover'd body this extremity of the skies. Is man no morethan this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, thebeast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! Here'sthree on's are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here. [Tears at his clothes. ] Fool. Prithee, nuncle, be contented! 'Tis a naughty night toswim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an oldlecher's heart- a small spark, all the rest on's body cold. Look,here comes a walking fire. Enter Gloucester with a torch. Edg. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet. He begins atcurfew, and walks till the first cock. He gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the whitewheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. Saint Withold footed thrice the 'old; He met the nightmare, and her nine fold; Bid her alight And her troth plight, And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee! Kent. How fares your Grace? Lear. What's he? Kent. Who's there? What is't you seek? Glou. What are you there? Your names? Edg. Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the toad, thetodpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart,when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets, swallowsthe old rat and the ditch-dog, drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipp'd from tithing to tithing, and stock-punish'd and imprison'd; who hath had three suits tohis back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapons to wear; But mice and rats, and such small deer, Have been Tom's food for seven long year. Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin! peace, thou fiend! Glou. What, hath your Grace no better company? Edg. The prince of darkness is a gentleman! Modo he's call'd, and Mahu. Glou. Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my lord, That it doth hate what gets it. Edg. Poor Tom 's acold. Glou. Go in with me. My duty cannot suffer T' obey in all your daughters' hard commands. Though their injunction be to bar my doors And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, Yet have I ventur'd to come seek you out And bring you where both fire and food is ready. Lear. First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder? Kent. Good my lord, take his offer; go into th' house. Lear. I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study? Edg. How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin. Lear. Let me ask you one word in private. Kent. Importune him once more to go, my lord. His wits begin t' unsettle. Glou. Canst thou blame him? Storm still. His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus- poor banish'd man! Thou say'st the King grows mad: I'll tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself. I had a son, Now outlaw'd from my blood. He sought my life But lately, very late. I lov'd him, friend- No father his son dearer. True to tell thee, The grief hath craz'd my wits. What a night 's this! I do beseech your Grace- Lear. O, cry you mercy, sir. Noble philosopher, your company. Edg. Tom's acold. Glou. In, fellow, there, into th' hovel; keep thee warm. Lear. Come, let's in all. Kent. This way, my lord. Lear. With him! I will keep still with my philosopher. Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow. Glou. Take him you on. Kent. Sirrah, come on; go along with us. Lear. Come, good Athenian. Glou. No words, no words! hush. Edg. Child Rowland to the dark tower came; His word was still Fie, foh, and fum! I smell the blood of a British man. Exeunt. Scene V. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Cornwall and Edmund. Corn. I will have my revenge ere I depart his house. Edm. How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus givesway to loyalty, something fears me to think of. Corn. I now perceive it was not altogether your brother's evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit,set awork by a reproveable badness in himself. Edm. How malicious is my fortune that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that this treason were not- or not I the detector! Corn. Go with me to the Duchess. Edm. If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand. Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension. Edm. [aside] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuffhis suspicion more fully. - I will persever in my course ofloyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood. Corn. I will lay trust upon thee, and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love. Exeunt. Scene VI.

A farmhouse near Gloucester's Castle. Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool, and Edgar. Glou. Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. Iwill piece out the comfort with what addition I can. I will notbe long from you. Kent. All the power of his wits have given way to hisimpatience. The gods reward your kindness! Exit [Gloucester]. Edg. Frateretto calls me, and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend. Fool. Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentlemanor a yeoman. Lear. A king, a king! Fool. No, he's a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; forhe's a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him. Lear. To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hizzing in upon 'em- Edg. The foul fiend bites my back. Fool. He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath. Lear. It shall be done; I will arraign them straight. [To Edgar] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer. [To the Fool] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, youshe-foxes! Edg. Look, where he stands and glares! Want'st thou eyes attrial, madam? Come o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me. Fool. Her boat hath a leak, And she must not speak Why she dares not come over to thee. Edg. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of anightingale. Hoppedance cries in Tom's belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee. Kent. How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz'd. Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions? Lear. I'll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. [To Edgar] Thou, robed man of justice, take thy place. [To the Fool] And thou, his yokefellow of equity, Bench by his side. [To Kent] You are o' th' commission, Sit you too. Edg. Let us deal justly. Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? Thy sheep be in the corn; And for one blast of thy minikin mouth Thy sheep shall take no harm. Purr! the cat is gray. Lear. Arraign her first. 'Tis Goneril. I here take my oathbefore this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King herfather. Fool. Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril? Lear. She cannot deny it. Fool. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool. Lear. And here's another, whose warp'd looks proclaim What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! Arms, arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let her scape? Edg. Bless thy five wits! Kent. O pity! Sir, where is the patience now That you so oft have boasted to retain? Edg. [aside] My tears begin to take his part so much They'll mar my counterfeiting. Lear. The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me. Edg. Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs! Be thy mouth or black or white, Tooth that poisons if it bite; Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach or lym, Bobtail tyke or trundle-tail- Tom will make them weep and wail; For, with throwing thus my head, Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. Do de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs andmarket towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry. Lear. Then let them anatomize Regan. See what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [To Edgar] You, sir- I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You'll say they are Persian attire; but let them be chang'd. Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile. Lear. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains. So, so, so. We'll go to supper i' th' morning. So, so, so. Fool. And I'll go to bed at noon. Enter Gloucester. Glou. Come hither, friend. Where is the King my master? Kent. Here, sir; but trouble him not; his wits are gone. Glou. Good friend, I prithee take him in thy arms. I have o'erheard a plot of death upon him. There is a litter ready; lay him in't And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master. If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, With thine, and all that offer to defend him, Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up! And follow me, that will to some provision Give thee quick conduct. Kent. Oppressed nature sleeps. This rest might yet have balm'd thy broken senses, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. [To the Fool] Come, help to bear thymaster. Thou must not stay behind. Glou. Come, come, away! Exeunt [all but Edgar]. Edg. When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind; But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. How light and portable my pain seems now, When that which makes me bend makes the King bow, He childed as I fathered! Tom, away! Mark the high noises, and thyself bewray When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee, In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee. What will hap more to-night, safe scape the King! Lurk, lurk. [Exit. ]Scene VII. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, [Edmund the] Bastard, andServants. Corn. [to Goneril] Post speedily to my lord your husband, showhim this letter. The army of France is landed. - Seek out thetraitor Gloucester. [Exeunt some of the Servants. ] Reg. Hang him instantly. Gon. Pluck out his eyes. Corn. Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company. The revenges we are bound to take upon yourtraitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the Duke whereyou are going, to a most festinate preparation. We are bound tothe like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister; farewell, my Lord of Gloucester. Enter [Oswald the] Steward. How now? Where's the King? Osw. My Lord of Gloucester hath convey'd him hence. Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lord's dependants, Are gone with him towards Dover, where they boast To have well-armed friends. Corn. Get horses for your mistress. Gon. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. Corn. Edmund, farewell. Exeunt Goneril, [Edmund, and Oswald]. Go seek the traitor Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us. [Exeunt other Servants. ] Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a court'sy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Enter Gloucester, brought in by two or three. Who's there? the traitor? Reg. Ingrateful fox! 'tis he. Corn. Bind fast his corky arms. Glou. What mean, your Graces? Good my friends, consider You are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends. Corn. Bind him, I say. [Servants bind him. ] Reg. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor! Glou. Unmerciful lady as you are, I am none. Corn. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find- [Regan plucks his beard. ] Glou. By the kind gods, 'tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard. Reg. So white, and such a traitor! Glou. Naughty lady, These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host.

With robber's hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do? Corn. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France? Reg. Be simple-answer'd, for we know the truth. Corn. And what confederacy have you with the traitors Late footed in the kingdom? Reg. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic King? Speak. Glou. I have a letter guessingly set down, Which came from one that's of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos'd. Corn. Cunning. Reg. And false. Corn. Where hast thou sent the King? Glou. To Dover. Reg. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg'd at peril- Corn. Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that. Glou. I am tied to th' stake, and I must stand the course. Reg. Wherefore to Dover, sir? Glou. Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare head In hell-black night endur'd, would have buoy'd up And quench'd the steeled fires. Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howl'd that stern time, Thou shouldst have said, 'Good porter, turn the key. ' All cruels else subscrib'd. But I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children. Corn. See't shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot. Glou. He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help! - O cruel! O ye gods! Reg. One side will mock another. Th' other too! Corn. If you see vengeance- 1. Serv. Hold your hand, my lord! I have serv'd you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold. Reg. How now, you dog? 1. Serv. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I'ld shake it on this quarrel. Reg. What do you mean? Corn. My villain! Draw and fight. 1. Serv. Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger. Reg. Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus? She takes a sword and runs at him behind. 1. Serv. O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O! He dies. Corn. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now? Glou. All dark and comfortless! Where's my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act. Reg. Out, treacherous villain! Thou call'st on him that hates thee. It was he That made the overture of thy treasons to us; Who is too good to pity thee. Glou. O my follies! Then Edgar was abus'd. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him! Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. Exit [one] with Gloucester. How is't, my lord? How look you? Corn. I have receiv'd a hurt. Follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace. Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm. Exit [Cornwall, led by Regan]. 2. Serv. I'll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good. 3. Serv. If she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters. 2. Serv. Let's follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would. His roguish madness Allows itself to anything. 3. Serv. Go thou. I'll fetch some flax and whites of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him! Exeunt. <<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>ACT IV. Scene I. The heath. Enter Edgar. Edg. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd, Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear. The lamentable change is from the best; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace! The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts. Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man. But who comes here? My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age. Old Man. O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father's tenant, These fourscore years. Glou. Away, get thee away! Good friend, be gone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt. Old Man. You cannot see your way. Glou. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. Ah dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father's wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I'ld say I had eyes again! Old Man. How now? Who's there? Edg. [aside] O gods! Who is't can say 'I am at the worst'? I am worse than e'er I was. Old Man. 'Tis poor mad Tom. Edg. [aside] And worse I may be yet. The worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst. ' Old Man. Fellow, where goest? Glou. Is it a beggarman? Old Man. Madman and beggar too. Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I' th' last night's storm I such a fellow saw, Which made me think a man a worm. My son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since. As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods. They kill us for their sport. Edg. [aside] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang'ring itself and others. - Bless thee, master! Glou. Is that the naked fellow? Old Man. Ay, my lord. Glou. Then prithee get thee gone. If for my sake Thou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain I' th' way toward Dover, do it for ancient love; And bring some covering for this naked soul, Who I'll entreat to lead me. Old Man. Alack, sir, he is mad! Glou. 'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure. Above the rest, be gone. Old Man. I'll bring him the best 'parel that I have, Come on't what will. Exit. Glou. Sirrah naked fellow- Edg. Poor Tom's acold. [Aside] I cannot daub it further.

Glou. Come hither, fellow. Edg. [aside] And yet I must. - Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed. Glou. Know'st thou the way to Dover? Edg. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hathbeen scar'd out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man's son,from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once:of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of dumbness; Mahu,of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master! Glou. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues Have humbled to all strokes. That I am wretched Makes thee the happier. Heavens, deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your pow'r quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover? Edg. Ay, master. Glou. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep. Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me. From that place I shall no leading need. Edg. Give me thy arm. Poor Tom shall lead thee. Exeunt. Scene II. Before the Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Goneril and [Edmund the] Bastard. Gon. Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Enter [Oswald the] Steward. Now, where's your master? Osw. Madam, within, but never man so chang'd. I told him of the army that was landed: He smil'd at it. I told him you were coming: His answer was, 'The worse. ' Of Gloucester's treachery And of the loyal service of his son When I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out. What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him; What like, offensive. Gon. [to Edmund] Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake. He'll not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother. Hasten his musters and conduct his pow'rs. I must change arms at home and give the distaff Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear (If you dare venture in your own behalf) A mistress's command. Wear this. [Gives a favour. ] Spare speech. Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. Conceive, and fare thee well. Edm. Yours in the ranks of death! Exit. Gon. My most dear Gloucester! O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman's services are due; My fool usurps my body. Osw. Madam, here comes my lord. Exit. Enter Albany. Gon. I have been worth the whistle. Alb. O Goneril, You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face! I fear your disposition. That nature which contemns it origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself. She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use. Gon. No more! The text is foolish. Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform'd? A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence even the head-lugg'd bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him so benefited! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep. Gon. Milk-liver'd man! That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st Fools do those villains pity who are punish'd Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and criest 'Alack, why does he so? ' Alb. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. Gon. O vain fool! Alb. Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame! Bemonster not thy feature! Were't my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones. Howe'er thou art a fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee. Gon. Marry, your manhood mew! Enter a Gentleman. Alb. What news? Gent. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall 's dead, Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester. Alb. Gloucester's eyes? Gent. A servant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse, Oppos'd against the act, bending his sword To his great master; who, thereat enrag'd, Flew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead; But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck'd him after. Alb. This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge! But O poor Gloucester! Lose he his other eye? Gent. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer. 'Tis from your sister. Gon. [aside] One way I like this well; But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life. Another way The news is not so tart. - I'll read, and answer. Exit. Alb. Where was his son when they did take his eyes? Gent. Come with my lady hither. Alb. He is not here. Gent. No, my good lord; I met him back again. Alb. Knows he the wickedness? Gent. Ay, my good lord. 'Twas he inform'd against him, And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course. Alb. Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show'dst the King, And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend. Tell me what more thou know'st. Exeunt. Scene III. The French camp near Dover. Enter Kent and a Gentleman. Kent. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know youthe reason? Gent. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom somuch fear and danger that his personal return was most requiredand necessary. Kent. Who hath he left behind him general? Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far. Kent. Did your letters pierce the Queen to any demonstration of grief? Gent. Ay, sir. She took them, read them in my presence, And now and then an ample tear trill'd down Her delicate cheek. It seem'd she was a queen Over her passion, who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o'er her. Kent. O, then it mov'd her? Gent. Not to a rage. Patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like, a better way. Those happy smilets That play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to know What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov'd, If all could so become it. Kent. Made she no verbal question? Gent. Faith, once or twice she heav'd the name of father Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart; Cried 'Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! Sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What, i' th' storm? i' th' night? Let pity not be believ'd! ' There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour moisten'd. Then away she started To deal with grief alone. Kent. It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions; Else one self mate and mate could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since? Gent. No. Kent. Was this before the King return'd? Gent. No, since. Kent. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear's i' th' town; Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter. Gent. Why, good sir? Kent. A sovereign shame so elbows him; his own unkindness, That stripp'd her from his benediction, turn'd her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters- these things sting His mind so venomously that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia. Gent. Alack, poor gentleman! Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you heard not?

Gent. 'Tis so; they are afoot. Kent. Well, sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile. When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you go Along with me. Exeunt. Scene IV. The French camp. Enter, with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Doctor, and Soldiers. Cor. Alack, 'tis he! Why, he was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea, singing aloud, Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo flow'rs, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. A century send forth. Search every acre in the high-grown field And bring him to our eye. [Exit an Officer. ] What can man's wisdom In the restoring his bereaved sense? He that helps him take all my outward worth. Doct. There is means, madam. Our foster nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks. That to provoke in him Are many simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish. Cor. All blest secrets, All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears! be aidant and remediate In the good man's distress! Seek, seek for him! Lest his ungovern'd rage dissolve the life That wants the means to lead it. Enter Messenger. Mess. News, madam. The British pow'rs are marching hitherward. Cor. 'Tis known before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about. Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our ag'd father's right. Soon may I hear and see him! Exeunt. Scene V. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Regan and [Oswald the] Steward. Reg. But are my brother's pow'rs set forth? Osw. Ay, madam. Reg. Himself in person there? Osw. Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier. Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home? Osw. No, madam. Reg. What might import my sister's letter to him? Osw. I know not, lady. Reg. Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone, In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover, to descry The strength o' th' enemy. Osw. I must needs after him, madam, with my letter. Reg. Our troops set forth to-morrow. Stay with us. The ways are dangerous. Osw. I may not, madam. My lady charg'd my duty in this business. Reg. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Something- I know not what- I'll love thee much- Let me unseal the letter. Osw. Madam, I had rather- Reg. I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here She gave strange eyeliads and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom. Osw. I, madam? Reg. I speak in understanding. Y'are! I know't. Therefore I do advise you take this note. My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk'd, And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady's. You may gather more. If you do find him, pray you give him this; And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisdom to her. So farewell. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. Osw. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show What party I do follow. Reg. Fare thee well. Exeunt. Scene VI. The country near Dover. Enter Gloucester, and Edgar [like a Peasant]. Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill? Edg. You do climb up it now. Look how we labour. Glou. Methinks the ground is even. Edg. Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea? Glou. No, truly. Edg. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes' anguish. Glou. So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice is alter'd, and thou speak'st In better phrase and matter than thou didst. Edg. Y'are much deceiv'd. In nothing am I chang'd But in my garments. Glou. Methinks y'are better spoken. Edg. Come on, sir; here's the place. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Halfway down Hangs one that gathers sampire- dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark, Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge That on th' unnumb'red idle pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. Glou. Set me where you stand. Edg. Give me your hand. You are now within a foot Of th' extreme verge. For all beneath the moon Would I not leap upright. Glou. Let go my hand. Here, friend, is another purse; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man's taking. Fairies and gods Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off; Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going. Edg. Now fare ye well, good sir. Glou. With all my heart. Edg. [aside]. Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it. Glou. O you mighty gods! He kneels. This world I do renounce, and, in your sights, Shake patiently my great affliction off. If I could bear it longer and not fall To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, My snuff and loathed part of nature should Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him! Now, fellow, fare thee well. He falls [forward and swoons]. Edg. Gone, sir, farewell. - And yet I know not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the theft. Had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past. - Alive or dead? Ho you, sir! friend! Hear you, sir? Speak! - Thus might he pass indeed. Yet he revives. What are you, sir? Glou. Away, and let me die. Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fadom down precipitating, Thou'dst shiver'd like an egg; but thou dost breathe; Hast heavy substance; bleed'st not; speak'st; art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life is a miracle. Speak yet again. Glou. But have I fall'n, or no? Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. Look up a-height. The shrill-gorg'd lark so far Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up. Glou. Alack, I have no eyes! Is wretchedness depriv'd that benefit To end itself by death? 'Twas yet some comfort When misery could beguile the tyrant's rage And frustrate his proud will. Edg. Give me your arm. Up- so. How is't? Feel you your legs? You stand. Glou. Too well, too well. Edg. This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o' th' cliff what thing was that Which parted from you? Glou.

A poor unfortunate beggar. Edg. As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelk'd and wav'd like the enridged sea. It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men's impossibility, have preserv'd thee. Glou. I do remember now. Henceforth I'll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself 'Enough, enough,' and die. That thing you speak of, I took it for a man. Often 'twould say 'The fiend, the fiend'- he led me to that place. Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts. Enter Lear, mad, [fantastically dressed with weeds]. But who comes here? The safer sense will ne'er accommodate His master thus. Lear. No, they cannot touch me for coming; I am the King himself. Edg. O thou side-piercing sight! Lear. Nature 's above art in that respect. There's your press money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper. Drawme a clothier's yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace; thispiece of toasted cheese will do't. There's my gauntlet; I'll proveit on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! i' th' clout, i' th' clout! Hewgh! Give the word. Edg. Sweet marjoram. Lear. Pass. Glou. I know that voice. Lear. Ha! Goneril with a white beard? They flatter'd me like adog, and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say 'ay' and 'no' to everything I said! 'Ay'and 'no' too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunderwould not peace at my bidding; there I found 'em, there I smelt'em out. Go to, they are not men o' their words! They told me Iwas everything. 'Tis a lie- I am not ague-proof. Glou. The trick of that voice I do well remember. Is't not the King? Lear. Ay, every inch a king! When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man's life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die. Die for adultery? No. The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester's bastard son Was kinder to his father than my daughters Got 'tween the lawful sheets. To't, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simp'ring dame, Whose face between her forks presageth snow, That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure's name. The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't With a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiend's. There's hell, there's darkness, there's the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie! pah,pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination. There's money for thee. Glou. O, let me kiss that hand! Lear. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality. Glou. O ruin'd piece of nature! This great world Shall so wear out to naught. Dost thou know me? Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny atme? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid! I'll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it. Glou. Were all the letters suns, I could not see one. Edg. [aside] I would not take this from report. It is, And my heart breaks at it. Lear. Read. Glou. What, with the case of eyes? Lear. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, norno money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, yourpurse in a light. Yet you see how this world goes. Glou. I see it feelingly. Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with noeyes. Look with thine ears. See how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark in thine ear. Change places and,handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? Glou. Ay, sir. Lear. And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightstbehold the great image of authority: a dog's obeyed in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back. Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind For which thou whip'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it. None does offend, none- I say none! I'll able 'em. Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal th' accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes And, like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now! Pull off my boots. Harder, harder! So. Edg. O, matter and impertinency mix'd! Reason, in madness! Lear. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester. Thou must be patient. We came crying hither; Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee. Mark. Glou. Alack, alack the day! Lear. When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools. This' a good block. It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt. I'll put't in proof, And when I have stol'n upon these sons-in-law, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! Enter a Gentleman [with Attendants]. Gent. O, here he is! Lay hand upon him. - Sir, Your most dear daughter- Lear. No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have a surgeon; I am cut to th' brains. Gent. You shall have anything. Lear. No seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes for garden waterpots, Ay, and laying autumn's dust. Gent. Good sir- Lear. I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What! I will be jovial. Come, come, I am a king; My masters, know you that? Gent. You are a royal one, and we obey you. Lear. Then there's life in't. Nay, an you get it, you shall getit by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa! Exit running. [Attendants follow. ] Gent. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to. Edg. Hail, gentle sir. Gent. Sir, speed you. What's your will? Edg. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward? Gent. Most sure and vulgar. Every one hears that Which can distinguish sound. Edg. But, by your favour, How near's the other army? Gent. Near and on speedy foot. The main descry Stands on the hourly thought. Edg. I thank you sir. That's all. Gent. Though that the Queen on special cause is here, Her army is mov'd on. Edg. I thank you, sir Exit [Gentleman].

Glou. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please! Edg. Well pray you, father. Glou. Now, good sir, what are you? Edg. A most poor man, made tame to fortune's blows, Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand; I'll lead you to some biding. Glou. Hearty thanks. The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot! Enter [Oswald the] Steward. Osw. A proclaim'd prize! Most happy! That eyeless head of thine was first fram'd flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember. The sword is out That must destroy thee. Glou. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to't. [Edgar interposes. ] Osw. Wherefore, bold peasant, Dar'st thou support a publish'd traitor? Hence! Lest that th' infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm. Edg. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther 'cagion. Osw. Let go, slave, or thou diest! Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor voke pass. Anchud ha' bin zwagger'd out of my life, 'twould not ha' bin zolong as 'tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th' old man. Keepout, che vore ye, or Ise try whether your costard or my ballow bethe harder. Chill be plain with you. Osw. Out, dunghill! They fight. Edg. Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor yourfoins. [Oswald falls. ] Osw. Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body, And give the letters which thou find'st about me To Edmund Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out Upon the British party. O, untimely death! Death! He dies. Edg. I know thee well. A serviceable villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire. Glou. What, is he dead? Edg. Sit you down, father; rest you. Let's see his pockets; these letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He's dead. I am only sorry He had no other deathsman. Let us see. Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not. To know our enemies' minds, we'ld rip their hearts; Their papers, is more lawful. Reads the letter. 'Let our reciprocal vows be rememb'red. You have many opportunities to cut him off. If your will want not, timeand place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done, ifhe return the conqueror. Then am I the prisoner, and his bed my jail; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supplythe place for your labour. 'Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant,'Goneril. ' O indistinguish'd space of woman's will! A plot upon her virtuous husband's life, And the exchange my brother! Here in the sands Thee I'll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murtherous lechers; and in the mature time With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practis'd Duke, For him 'tis well That of thy death and business I can tell. Glou. The King is mad. How stiff is my vile sense, That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract. So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves. A drum afar off. Edg. Give me your hand. Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum. Come, father, I'll bestow you with a friend. Exeunt. Scene VII. A tent in the French camp. Enter Cordelia, Kent, Doctor, and Gentleman. Cor. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short And every measure fail me. Kent. To be acknowledg'd, madam, is o'erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth; Nor more nor clipp'd, but so. Cor. Be better suited. These weeds are memories of those worser hours. I prithee put them off. Kent. Pardon, dear madam. Yet to be known shortens my made intent. My boon I make it that you know me not Till time and I think meet. Cor. Then be't so, my good lord. [To the Doctor] How, does theKing? Doct. Madam, sleeps still. Cor. O you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! Th' untun'd and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father! Doct. So please your Majesty That we may wake the King? He hath slept long. Cor. Be govern'd by your knowledge, and proceed I' th' sway of your own will. Is he array'd? Enter Lear in a chair carried by Servants. Gent. Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep We put fresh garments on him. Doct. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him. I doubt not of his temperance. Cor. Very well. Music. Doct. Please you draw near. Louder the music there! Cor. O my dear father, restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made! Kent. Kind and dear princess! Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face To be oppos'd against the warring winds? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick cross lightning? to watch- poor perdu! - With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn, In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! 'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all. - He wakes. Speak to him. Doct. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest. Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your Majesty? Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave. Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. Cor. Sir, do you know me? Lear. You are a spirit, I know. When did you die? Cor. Still, still, far wide! Doct. He's scarce awake. Let him alone awhile. Lear. Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight, I am mightily abus'd. I should e'en die with pity, To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands. Let's see. I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur'd Of my condition! Cor. O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o'er me. No, sir, you must not kneel. Lear. Pray, do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For (as I am a man) I think this lady To be my child Cordelia. Cor. And so I am! I am! Lear. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not. Cor. No cause, no cause. Lear. Am I in France? Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. Lear. Do not abuse me. Doct. Be comforted, good madam.

The great rage You see is kill'd in him; and yet it is danger To make him even o'er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in. Trouble him no more Till further settling. Cor. Will't please your Highness walk? Lear. You must bear with me. Pray you now, forget and forgive. I am old and foolish. Exeunt. Manent Kent and Gentleman. Gent. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was soslain? Kent. Most certain, sir. Gent. Who is conductor of his people? Kent. As 'tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester. Gent. They say Edgar, his banish'd son, is with the Earl ofKent in Germany. Kent. Report is changeable. 'Tis time to look about; the powersof the kingdom approach apace. Gent. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir. [Exit. ] Kent. My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well or ill, as this day's battle's fought. Exit. <<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>ACT V. Scene I. The British camp near Dover. Enter, with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Regan, Gentleman, andSoldiers. Edm. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is advis'd by aught To change the course. He's full of alteration And self-reproving. Bring his constant pleasure. [Exit an Officer. ] Reg. Our sister's man is certainly miscarried. Edm. Tis to be doubted, madam. Reg. Now, sweet lord, You know the goodness I intend upon you. Tell me- but truly- but then speak the truth- Do you not love my sister? Edm. In honour'd love. Reg. But have you never found my brother's way To the forfended place? Edm. That thought abuses you. Reg. I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom'd with her, as far as we call hers. Edm. No, by mine honour, madam. Reg. I never shall endure her. Dear my lord, Be not familiar with her. Edm. Fear me not. She and the Duke her husband! Enter, with Drum and Colours, Albany, Goneril, Soldiers. Gon. [aside] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should loosen him and me. Alb. Our very loving sister, well bemet. Sir, this I hear: the King is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigour of our state Forc'd to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant. For this business, It toucheth us as France invades our land, Not bolds the King, with others whom, I fear, Most just and heavy causes make oppose. Edm. Sir, you speak nobly. Reg. Why is this reason'd? Gon. Combine together 'gainst the enemy; For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here. Alb. Let's then determine With th' ancient of war on our proceeding. Edm. I shall attend you presently at your tent. Reg. Sister, you'll go with us? Gon. No. Reg. 'Tis most convenient. Pray you go with us. Gon. [aside] O, ho, I know the riddle. - I will go. [As they are going out,] enter Edgar [disguised]. Edg. If e'er your Grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word. Alb. I'll overtake you. - Speak. Exeunt [all but Albany and Edgar]. Edg. Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, let the trumpet sound For him that brought it. Wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that will prove What is avouched there. If you miscarry, Your business of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune love you! Alb. Stay till I have read the letter. Edg. I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, And I'll appear again. Alb. Why, fare thee well. I will o'erlook thy paper. Exit [Edgar]. Enter Edmund. Edm. The enemy 's in view; draw up your powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery; but your haste Is now urg'd on you. Alb. We will greet the time. Exit. Edm. To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use His countenance for the battle, which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia- The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon; for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate. Exit. Scene II. A field between the two camps. Alarum within. Enter, with Drum and Colours, the Powers of Franceover the stage, Cordelia with her Father in her hand, and exeunt. Enter Edgar and Gloucester. Edg. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host. Pray that the right may thrive. If ever I return to you again, I'll bring you comfort. Glou. Grace go with you, sir! Exit [Edgar]. Alarum and retreat within. Enter Edgar, Edg. Away, old man! give me thy hand! away! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en. Give me thy hand! come on! Glou. No further, sir. A man may rot even here. Edg. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all. Come on. Glou. And that's true too. Exeunt. Scene III. The British camp, near Dover. Enter, in conquest, with Drum and Colours, Edmund; Lear andCordeliaas prisoners; Soldiers, Captain. Edm. Some officers take them away. Good guard Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them. Cor. We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurr'd the worst. For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down; Myself could else outfrown false Fortune's frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? Lear. No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison. We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage. When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too- Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out- And take upon 's the mystery of things, As if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out, In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by th' moon. Edm. Take them away. Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes. The goodyears shall devour 'em, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We'll see 'em starv'd first. Come. Exeunt [Lear and Cordelia, guarded]. Edm. Come hither, Captain; hark. Take thou this note [gives a paper]. Go follow them toprison. One step I have advanc'd thee. If thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To noble fortunes. Know thou this, that men Are as the time is. To be tender-minded Does not become a sword. Thy great employment Will not bear question. Either say thou'lt do't, Or thrive by other means. Capt.

I'll do't, my lord. Edm. About it! and write happy when th' hast done. Mark- I say, instantly; and carry it so As I have set it down. Capt. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; If it be man's work, I'll do't. Exit. Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, Soldiers. Alb. Sir, you have show'd to-day your valiant strain, And fortune led you well. You have the captives Who were the opposites of this day's strife. We do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine. Edm. Sir, I thought it fit To send the old and miserable King To some retention and appointed guard; Whose age has charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side And turn our impress'd lances in our eyes Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen, My reason all the same; and they are ready To-morrow, or at further space, t' appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; And the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs'd By those that feel their sharpness. The question of Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place. Alb. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother. Reg. That's as we list to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers, Bore the commission of my place and person, The which immediacy may well stand up And call itself your brother. Gon. Not so hot! In his own grace he doth exalt himself More than in your addition. Reg. In my rights By me invested, he compeers the best. Gon. That were the most if he should husband you. Reg. Jesters do oft prove prophets. Gon. Holla, holla! That eye that told you so look'd but asquint. Reg. Lady, I am not well; else I should answer From a full-flowing stomach. General, Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine. Witness the world that I create thee here My lord and master. Gon. Mean you to enjoy him? Alb. The let-alone lies not in your good will. Edm. Nor in thine, lord. Alb. Half-blooded fellow, yes. Reg. [to Edmund] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine. Alb. Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason; and, in thine attaint, This gilded serpent [points to Goneril]. For your claim,fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife. 'Tis she is subcontracted to this lord, And I, her husband, contradict your banes. If you will marry, make your loves to me; My lady is bespoke. Gon. An interlude! Alb. Thou art arm'd, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound. If none appear to prove upon thy person Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, There is my pledge [throws down a glove]! I'll prove it onthy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaim'd thee. Reg. Sick, O, sick! Gon. [aside] If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine. Edm. There's my exchange [throws down a glove]. What in theworld he is That names me traitor, villain-like he lies. Call by thy trumpet. He that dares approach, On him, on you, who not? I will maintain My truth and honour firmly. Alb. A herald, ho! Edm. A herald, ho, a herald! Alb. Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge. Reg. My sickness grows upon me. Alb. She is not well. Convey her to my tent. [Exit Regan, led. ] Enter a Herald. Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound, And read out this. Capt. Sound, trumpet! A trumpet sounds. Her. (reads) 'If any man of quality or degree within the listsof the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl ofGloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the thirdsound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence. ' Edm. Sound! First trumpet. Her. Again! Second trumpet. Her. Again! Third trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar, armed, at the third sound, a Trumpet before him. Alb. Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o' th' trumpet. Her. What are you? Your name, your quality? and why you answer This present summons? Edg. Know my name is lost; By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit. Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope. Alb. Which is that adversary? Edg. What's he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester? Edm. Himself. What say'st thou to him? Edg. Draw thy sword, That, if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice. Here is mine. Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, My oath, and my profession. I protest- Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valour and thy heart- thou art a traitor; False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father; Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince; And from th' extremest upward of thy head To the descent and dust beneath thy foot, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou 'no,' This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest. Edm. In wisdom I should ask thy name; But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. Back do I toss those treasons to thy head; With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart; Which- for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise- This sword of mine shall give them instant way Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak! Alarums. Fight. [Edmund falls. ] Alb. Save him, save him! Gon. This is mere practice, Gloucester. By th' law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite. Thou art not vanquish'd, But cozen'd and beguil'd. Alb. Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it. [Shows her her letter to Edmund. ]- [To Edmund]. Hold, sir. [To Goneril] Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady! I perceive you know it. Gon. Say if I do- the laws are mine, not thine. Who can arraign me for't? Alb. Most monstrous! Know'st thou this paper? Gon. Ask me not what I know. Exit. Alb. Go after her. She's desperate; govern her. [Exit an Officer. ] Edm. What, you have charg'd me with, that have I done, And more, much more. The time will bring it out. 'Tis past, and so am I. - But what art thou That hast this fortune on me? If thou'rt noble, I do forgive thee. Edg. Let's exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more th' hast wrong'd me. My name is Edgar and thy father's son. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to scourge us. The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes. Edm. Th' hast spoken right; 'tis true. The wheel is come full circle; I am here. Alb. Methought thy very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. Let sorrow split my heart if ever I Did hate thee, or thy father! Edg. Worthy prince, I know't. Alb. Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of your father? Edg. By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale; And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst! The bloody proclamation to escape That follow'd me so near (O, our lives' sweetness! That with the pain of death would hourly die Rather than die at once! ) taught me to shift Into a madman's rags, t' assume a semblance That very dogs disdain'd; and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his guide, Led him, begg'd for him, sav'd him from despair; Never (O fault! ) reveal'd myself unto him Until some half hour past, when I was arm'd, Not sure, though hoping of this good success, I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last Told him my pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart (Alack, too weak the conflict to support! ) 'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly. Edm. This speech of yours hath mov'd me, And shall perchance do good; but speak you on; You look as you had something more to say. Alb. If there be more, more woful, hold it in; For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this. Edg. This would have seem'd a period To such as love not sorrow; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more, And top extremity. Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man, Who, having seen me in my worst estate, Shunn'd my abhorr'd society; but then, finding Who 'twas that so endur'd, with his strong arms He fastened on my neck, and bellowed out As he'd burst heaven; threw him on my father; Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear receiv'd; which in recounting His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets sounded, And there I left him tranc'd.

Alb. But who was this? Edg. Kent, sir, the banish'd Kent; who in disguise Followed his enemy king and did him service Improper for a slave. Enter a Gentleman with a bloody knife. Gent. Help, help! O, help! Edg. What kind of help? Alb. Speak, man. Edg. What means that bloody knife? Gent. 'Tis hot, it smokes. It came even from the heart of- O! she's dead! Alb. Who dead? Speak, man. Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady! and her sister By her is poisoned; she hath confess'd it. Edm. I was contracted to them both. All three Now marry in an instant. Enter Kent. Edg. Here comes Kent. Alb. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead. [Exit Gentleman. ] This judgement of the heavens, that makes us tremble Touches us not with pity. O, is this he? The time will not allow the compliment That very manners urges. Kent. I am come To bid my king and master aye good night. Is he not here? Alb. Great thing of us forgot! Speak, Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia? The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in. Seest thou this object, Kent? Kent. Alack, why thus? Edm. Yet Edmund was belov'd. The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself. Alb. Even so. Cover their faces. Edm. I pant for life. Some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send (Be brief in't) to the castle; for my writ Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia. Nay, send in time. Alb. Run, run, O, run! Edg. To who, my lord? Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve. Edm. Well thought on. Take my sword; Give it the Captain. Alb. Haste thee for thy life. [Exit Edgar. ] Edm. He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in the prison and To lay the blame upon her own despair That she fordid herself. Alb. The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile. [Edmund is borne off. ] Enter Lear, with Cordelia [dead] in his arms, [Edgar,Captain, and others following]. Lear. Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone. Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever! I know when one is dead, and when one lives. She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass. If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives. Kent. Is this the promis'd end? Edg. Or image of that horror? Alb. Fall and cease! Lear. This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt. Kent. O my good master! Lear. Prithee away! Edg. 'Tis noble Kent, your friend. Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have sav'd her; now she's gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st, Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low- an excellent thing in woman. I kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee. Capt. 'Tis true, my lords, he did. Lear. Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made them skip. I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o' th' best. I'll tell you straight. Kent. If fortune brag of two she lov'd and hated, One of them we behold. Lear. This' a dull sight. Are you not Kent? Kent. The same- Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius? Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that. He'll strike, and quickly too. He's dead and rotten. Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very man- Lear. I'll see that straight. Kent. That from your first of difference and decay Have followed your sad steps. Lear. You're welcome hither. Kent. Nor no man else! All's cheerless, dark, and deadly. Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, And desperately are dead. Lear. Ay, so I think. Alb. He knows not what he says; and vain is it That we present us to him. Edg. Very bootless. Enter a Captain. Capt. Edmund is dead, my lord. Alb. That's but a trifle here. You lords and noble friends, know our intent. What comfort to this great decay may come Shall be applied. For us, we will resign, During the life of this old Majesty, To him our absolute power; [to Edgar and Kent] you to your rights; With boot, and such addition as your honours Have more than merited. - All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue, and all foes The cup of their deservings. - O, see, see! Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her! look! her lips! Look there, look there! He dies. Edg. He faints! My lord, my lord! Kent. Break, heart; I prithee break! Edg. Look up, my lord. Kent. Vex not his ghost. O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer. Edg. He is gone indeed. Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long. He but usurp'd his life. Alb. Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [To Kent and Edgar] Friends of my soul, you twain Rule in this realm, and the gor'd state sustain. Kent. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go. My master calls me; I must not say no. Alb. The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest have borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long. Exeunt with a dead march. THE END<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION. ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY. PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>End of this Etext of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, The Tragedy ofKing Lear