ANA-BLANCA CIOCOI-POP

NOTES ON ELIZABETHAN DRAMA

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments …………………………………………………… 4

A Tentative Overview of Elizabethan Drama ………………………. 5

Introduction …………………………………………………… 5

The Elizabethan Playhouse …………………………………… 7

Notable Elizabethan Playwrights ……………………………. 10

The Elizabethan Chronicle Play, Tragedy and Comedy …….. 12

Some General Considerations on the Nature of Dramatic Productions

………………………………………………………………… 14

Concluding Remarks …………………………………………. 16

The University Wits …………………………………………………. 17

Robert Greene …………………………………………………. 21

Thomas Nashe ………………………………………………… 25

Thomas Lodge ………………………………………………… 28

George Peele …………………………………………………… 32

Thomas Kyd …………………………………………………... 36

John Lyly ……………………………………………………………... 42

Christopher Marlowe ………………………………………………… 49

William Shakespeare …………………………………………………. 66

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Now Read On ……………………………………………………...… 79

John Lyly - Endymion, the Man in the Moone (fragments) …………. 80

Christopher Marlowe - The Tragical Historie of the Life and Death of

Doctor Faustus (fragments) …………………………………………... 98

William Shakespeare - A Midsummer Night’s Dream (fragments) … 114

William Shakespeare – Othello, the Moore of Venice (fragments) … 144

William Shakespeare – The Life and Death of King Richard III (fragments)

………………………………………………………………………… 208

William Shakespeare - The Tempest (fragments) ………………….. . 255

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Acknowledgments

My heartfelt gratitude goes out to the President of the “Vasile Goldis” West

University of Arad, Professor Aurel Ardeleanu, to Mrs. Rector, Professor

Coralia Adina Cotoraci, as well as to Associate Professor Marius Grec, Dean

of the Faculty of Humane, Political and Administrative Studies at VGWUA

for their invaluable support in the publication of this book.

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A Tentative Overview of Elizabethan Drama

There are four classes of idols which beset men's minds. To these for distinction's sake I

have assigned names--calling the first class Idols of the Tribe; the second, Idols of the

Cave; the third, Idols of the Market-Place; the fourth, Idols of the Theatre.

(Francis Bacon)

Introduction

The term English Renaissance theatre, also referred to as Elizabethan drama,

denotes the English theatrical productions, largely based in London, between

1567, when the first English theatre 'The Red Lion' was opened, and the

closing down of the theatres in 1642. Key Elizabethan dramatists are

William Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe, John Lyly, and many others.

Under the reign of Queen Elizabeth, the drama not only flourished and

became the country’s most beloved artistic form of expression, but it was

also unified to a never before and never after extent in what social class is

concerned: i.e., the courtiers and members of the upper social strata watched

the same plays that the commoners saw in the numerous public playhouses

scattered throughout England’s territory. Towards the end of the period,

however, along with the appearance of private theatres, drama became

increasingly oriented toward the tastes and values of an upper-class audience

and renounced its democratic character in favour of a more elitist one. 

The Elizabethan era marked the peak of the English theatre’s

evolution. The growing population of London, the growing wealth of the

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people, and their fondness for dramatic productions gave birth to a dramatic

literature of remarkable variety, quality, and extent. Although unfortunately

most of the plays written for the Elizabethan stage have been lost, over 600

remain and are subject to contemporary re-evaluation and assessment. This

is how Professor W.A. Neilson describes the period:

When the great European movement known as the Renaissance reached England,

it found its fullest and most lasting expression in the drama. By a fortunate group

of coincidences this intellectual and artistic impulse affected the people of

England at a moment when the country was undergoing a rapid and, on the whole,

a peaceful expansion—when the national spirit soared high, and when the

development of the language and the forms of versification had reached a point

which made possible the most triumphant literary achievement which that country

has seen. (http://www.bartleby.com/60/203.html)

Before the literary period commonly referred to as Elizabethan Drama

actually came into being, England’s stages were dominated by so-called

miracle and morality plays. These were stagings of Biblical scenes, focused

on the life of the Christ or of various saints, initially performed in churches

around the time of important religious holidays such as Christmas, Easter,

Michaelmas, etc. Soon these plays become so popular that churches could

no longer held the impressive number of spectators, so performances were

relocated to the church yards, and then to town squares. The moment drama

was out of the strict sphere of influence of the church, secular subject

matters were added to the religious ones, or even replaced them altogether.

We can identify this moment with the birth of English Renaissance theatre1.1 “Throughout the Middle Ages the English drama, like that of other European countries, was mainly religious and didactic, its chief forms being the Miracle Plays, which presented in crude dialogue stories from the Bible and the lives of the saints, and the Moralities, which taught lessons for the guidance of life through the means of allegorical action and the personification of abstract qualities. Both forms were

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For quite a long time performers were itinerant actors, traveling from

town to town, and it was only with the opening of large and profitable public

theatres that the success of English Renaissance drama really took off. Once

these theatres were in fully functional, drama became a fixed and permanent

rather than a transitory phenomenon. The construction of public playhouses

was first a result of the Mayor and Corporation of London’s banning plays in

1572 as a measure against the spreading of the plague: all players from the

city were banned as a method of precaution in 1575.[3] The construction of

permanent playhouses outside of London ensued.[3] The Theatre was

constructed in 1576, followed by the nearby Curtain Theatre (1577), the

Rose (1587), the Swan (1595), the Globe (1599), the Fortune (1600), and

the Red Bull (1604).2

The Elizabethan Playhouse

Recent archaeological excavations on the foundations of famous Elizabethan

public theatres point to the fact that that all the London theatres had

individual differences; however, their common function led to a similar

severely limited in their opportunities for picturing human nature and human life with breadth and variety. With the revival of learning came naturally the study and imitation of the ancient classical drama, and in some countries this proved the chief influence in determining the prevalent type of drama for generations to come. But in England, though we can trace important results of the models given by Seneca in tragedy and Plautus in comedy, the main characteristics of the drama of the Elizabethan age were of native origin, and reflected the spirit and the interests of the Englishmen of that day.” (W.A. Nielsen, Lectures on the Harvard Classics), available online: http://www.bartleby.com/60/203.html2 In spite of this boom in the construction of public playhouses, Dr Tara Hamling of the Shakespeare Institute at the University of Birmingham argues that playhouses were not necessarily a common sight in most Elizabethan towns: “Thanks to the reconstruction of the iconic Globe theatre, and the success of blockbuster films like Shakespeare in Love, most people assume that public playhouses were a common sight in England’s towns and cities throughout the Elizabethan period. Yet, […] this simply wasn’t the case. The first commercial public playhouse wasn’t actually built until 1567 – almost ten years into Elizabeth’s reign,” she says. “And while these dedicated spaces for the performance of plays must have offered exciting new leisure opportunities in the capital, when it comes to explaining how people across the country experienced drama, performance and pageantry during the 16th century, they are only part of the story.” (http://www.historyextra.com/feature/elizabethan-drama)

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general structure.[8] The public theatres were structured on three levels, and

built around an open space at the centre, called the pit. Usually polygonal in

order to convey an overall rounded effect (though the Red Bull and the first

Fortune were square), the three stories of inward-facing galleries overlooked

the open center, where the stage was located—the stage being essentially a

platform surrounded on three sides by the audience, only the rear being used

for the entrances and exits of the actors or alternatively for the seating of the

musicians. The upper level behind the stage could be used as a balcony, as

in Romeo and Juliet or Antony and Cleopatra, or as point from which an

actor could address the spectators, as in Julius Caesar. Elizabethan theatres

were usually made of timber, lath and plaster and featured thatched roofs,

which were quite vulnerable to fire, and were thus replaced later on with

safer alternatives. When the Globe burned down in 1613, it was rebuilt

featuring a tile roof, similarly when the Fortune burned down in 1621, it was

rebuilt using brick.

The Blackfriars theatre on the other hand was rather small in

comparison to the earlier theatres and had a roof, rather than being open to

the sky. In this respect it resembled a modern theatre in ways its

predecessors never did. Along with the opening of the Salisbury Court

Theatre in 1629, the London audience had six theatres to choose from: three

large open-air "public" theatres, the Globe, the Fortune, and the Red Bull,

and three smaller, enclosed "private" theatres, the Blackfriars, the Cockpit,

and the Salisbury Court.[10] During this period Marlowe and Shakespeare, as

well as their contemporary playwrights, were still being performed on a

regular basis (mostly at the public theatres), while the most recent works of

the more fashionable playwrights were performed mainly at the private

theatres.

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Around 1580 the total theatre capacity of London was about 5000

spectators. After 1610, the capital's total theatre capacity exceeded 10,000.[11] Another fact worth mentioning is that the existence of public playhouses

enabled an unprecedented access of all social strata to performances: in

1580, even the poorest citizens could purchase admittance to the Curtain or

the Theatre for a penny; in 1640, they could gain admittance to the Globe,

the Cockpit, or the Red Bull for exactly the same price. On the other hand,

ticket for performances hosted by private theatres were up to five or six

times higher.

One other distinctive feature of Elizabethan theatres was that they

included only males in their performances. Until the reign of Charles II,

female parts were played by adolescent boy players wearing women's

costumes. Theatre companies never played the same play two days in a row,

and rarely the same play twice in a week. The workload of the actors,

especially the leading performers, must have been tremendous judging by

present-day standards. Performances were flamboyant and spectacular, often

involving costumes bright in color and visually entrancing. Costumes were

expensive, however, so usually players had to wear contemporary clothing

regardless of the time period portrayed in the play. It was also customary for

costumes to be recycled and used in multiple plays until they were too worn

out to be used. Lead character would sometimes wear a conventionalized

version of a more historically accurate costume, but secondary characters

would most often be dressed in contemporary clothing.

Notable Elizabethan Playwrights

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In spite of the apparent glamour of the age, Elizabethan theatre exposes also

a number of shortcomings. No women functioned as professional dramatists

during this period, and the men who did were primarily self-made men from

modest backgrounds.[13] Few of them, collectively referred to as the

University Wits (see Chapter 1) were educated at

either Oxford or Cambridge, but most lacked any formal education.

Although William Shakespeare and Ben Jonson were actors, most

Elizabethan playwrights do not seem to have been performers, and no major

author writing for the scene after 1600 is known to have supplemented his

income by acting.

Some Elizabethan playwrights are difficult to define and characterize

by modern standards of judging poets or intellectuals. Christopher Marlowe,

probably the most notorious example in this respect, was killed in what

appears to be a tavern brawl, while Ben Jonson killed an actor in a duel.

Several of these playwrights probably were soldiers. Writing plays for the

theatre was also not precisely what one would label a well-paid job.

Playwrights were usually paid in increments during the writing process, and

if their play was accepted, they would also receive the proceeds from one

day's performance. However, they had no ownership (i.e. intellectual

property) of their works. Once a play was sold to a company, the company

owned it, and the playwright had no control over casting, performance, or

even revision or publication.

The profession of dramatist was challenging and seldom offered any

material satisfaction. A playwright, working alone, could generally produce

no more than two plays a year at the utmost; Shakespeare, the most prolific

of all Elizabethan playwrights, produced less than forty plays in a career that

spanned more than two decades. Even so, Shakespeare was financially

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successful solely because he was also an actor and, what is even more

important, a shareholder in the company for which he acted and in the

theatres they used. Those who were only playwrights did far less well, as

shown by the biographies of early Elizabethan dramatists such as George

Peele and Robert Greene, whose careers were marked by financial

difficulties, struggle, and even poverty.

In order to be able to make ends meet, dramatists were often

compelled to work in teams of four or five in order to increase productivity

and receive better payment. Many Elizabethan playwrights dealt with the

natural limitation of their artistic productivity by combining into groups of

two, three, four, and even five to generate texts, thus the vast majority of

plays written in this era were collaborations, and the artists who did not rely

on collaborative efforts, like Jonson and Shakespeare, were rather the

exceptions. In recent years even Shakespeare has become the subject of

numerous more or less elaborate theories regarding the uncertainty of

authorship of his work, with an important number of exegetes claiming that

Shakespeare collaborated with other playwrights for most if not all of his

plays, or that he downright ‘stole’ topics for plays from fellow dramatist,

harbored by the non-existence of copyright rules. Divided work obviously

meant divided income, but this popular arrangement seems to have

functioned well enough to have made it worthwhile. An artist working on

his own usually needed months to complete a play (though Ben Jonson is

said to have written Volpone in five weeks), whereas a team of four or five

writers could produce a play even in two weeks. Many Elizabethan

dramatists however could start a project, accept monetary advances on it, yet

fail to produce anything stageworthy in the end. Unfortunately the many

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failures of Elizabethan dramatists have in most cases disappeared without a

trace.

The Elizabethan Chronicle Play, Tragedy and Comedy

Of the manifold manifestations that drama exposes during this historical

period, the first to reach a culmination was the so-called Chronicle History,

or chronicle play. Shakespeare produced around ten plays belonging to this

type (see the Now Read On section of this book on Richard III). These

dramas are a proof of the vivid interest Elizabethans took in the heroic past

of England, and before this kind of play became outdated, nearly three

hundred years of English history had been presented in dramatized form on

stage. “As a form of dramatic art the Chronicle History had many defects

and limitations”, W.A. Neilson argues. The reason behind this statement is

that historical facts cannot always be translated into effective theatrical

representations, and by trying to combine history and drama both aspects

frequently suffered. In spite of this, in many cases playwrights found the

opportunity for such complex and impressive studies of character as in

Shakespeare’s Richard III.

In close connection to the historical plays was also the development of

the tragic genre. In their search for themes, the dramatists soon renounced

facts, and instead searched the whole range of imaginative narrative for

tragic subjects. Seneca’s works might have been to some extent the

inspiration for the use of ghosts and the motive of revenge in Elizabethan

tragedy, however, the type of tragedy that Shakespeare developed from the

earlier experiments of Marlowe and Kyd was a completely new and distinct

phenomenon:

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Such classical restrictions as the unities of place and time, and the complete

separation of comedy and tragedy, were discarded, and there resulted a series of

plays which, while often marked by lack of restraint, of regular form, of unity of

tone, yet gave a picture of human life as affected by sin and suffering which in its

richness, its variety, and its imaginative exuberance has never been equaled.

(http://www.bartleby.com/60/203.html)

The greatest representative of Elizabethan tragedy was undoubtedly

Shakespeare. Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth are ranked among his most

valuable productions. “Hamlet” was probably his most popular tragedy at

the time of its production, and throughout centuries it has stirred discussion

as perhaps no other play of any time or country has managed to do.

  In the field of comedy, Shakespeare’s supremacy is also seldomly

questioned. Based on the nature of this kind of drama, audiences do not

expect in it the spiritual and intellectual depth or the call upon one’s

profounder sympathies or value systems that we find in tragedies. To this we

can add the fact that the conventional happy ending of comedies makes it

difficult to speak about any degree of truth to life. In spite of all this, the

comedies of Shakespeare are anything but superficial. The productions

belonging to the middle of his career, for instance As You Like It and Twelfth

Night, not only skillfully display the complexity of human nature, “but with

indescribable lightness and grace introduce us to charming creations,

speaking lines rich in poetry and sparkling with wit, and bring before our

imaginations whole series of delightful scenes”

(http://www.bartleby.com/60/203.html). The Tempest is even more complex

than this: while it contains much of the charming character of the earlier

comedies, it also abounds in the mellow wisdom of the author’s riper years.

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Some General Considerations on the Nature of Dramatic Productions

Even if we can speak about a vast array of particularities, Elizabethan drama

also observes a couple of general characteristics, identifiable in the case of

most dramatic productions throughout the centuries. In what follows, we

will attempt to highlight a couple of these common features.

In order to be successfully staged, a play must observe certain rules:

- it must be short and intense3;

- a certain degree of limitation must be imposed on the subject-matter (not

everything can be efficiently presented in a play – see also Professor

Nielson’s discussion of the limitations of chronicle plays, referred to in the

previous section);

- Aristotle’s three unities should be observed (of time, place, and action) –

this is not the case with many of Shakespeare’s and other Elizabethan

playwrights’ productions.

The techniques usually employed by drama are:

- the analytical technique: presents the story that directly precedes the

conflict and catastrophe. There are also events which took place prior to the

beginning of the play and have a direct influence on the outcome – these are

usually completely revealed in the denouement (e.g. Sophocles’ Oedipus);

- the synthetic technique: the action of the play develops entirely on stage;

there is no real conflict when the play begins (e.g. Shakespeare’s plays)

3 “‘Poetic’ or ‘closet’ plays lack the speed of the action, and are thus intended for reading at home. They

include long poetic descriptions and soliloquies, flat characterization, looser structure – all of which makes

them less efficient when they are staged (Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound; Byron’s Manfred).”

(http://www.englistika.info/podatki/2_letnik/the_elizabethan__pre-shakespearian__drama_and_theory.pdf)

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The traditional parts of drama are:

1. The exposition: Informative function. Audience is introduced to the main

characters (their believes and problems). Produces tension with the

oppositions. Establishes the atmosphere (the mood) of the play. Shows the

dramatic skill of the author (creating the atmosphere, arousing interest).

2. The conflict: May be a physical happening on stage, a mental decision, or

even a natural catastrophe. Starling, unusual development gives rise to a

crisis, which leads to other actions and events. The characters are revealed in

a new light. The action becomes more complex. The latent conflict of the

story becomes palpably true. Must bear the essence of the dramatic

opposition in the story (not giving the key to the solution of the problem, it

must open possibilities). - (e.g. Othello: discourse between Iago and

Roderigo)

3. The climax: The problem is completely laid out. The opposition between

the protagonist and the antagonist reaches its peak. - (e.g. Romeo and Juliet:

the nuptial night)

4. The denouement (resolution): The climax is resolved. Past actions are

explained. New evidence is brought to light. The relationships among the

characters are revealed. Consists of the tragic moment and the moment of

retardation. The tragic moment: is an additional moral burden on the hero

(either an obstacle in his struggle to reach his aim or a moment which

emphasizes and speeds up his decline). (Hamlet: killing of Polonius) The

moment of retardation: can be moral (the audience realizes that the play

might not end tragically) or technical (scenes are introduced to prevent the

story from coming to the catastrophe too suddenly). - (e.g. Romeo and Juliet:

Fair John fails to deliver the letter to Romeo)

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5. The catastrophe: By some discovery, the action comes to an end. The

final battle between two opposing forces is settled.

Concluding Remarks

Elizabethan drama refers to the bulk of plays produced while Queen

Elizabeth reigned in England, from 1558 until 1603. It was during this

period that the public started to attend plays in impressive numbers. The

opening of several large public playhouses was to a great extent responsible

for this development, the largest and most famous of these playhouses being

the Globe theater (1599), ‘home’ to many of Shakespeare’s most famous

works.

The most popular and beloved Elizabethan plays were histories of

English kings, but revenge dramas and comedies also drew significant

crowds. Although William Shakespeare was by far the most prolific and

certainly the most famous of all Elizabethan dramatists, other popular

playwrights of the period included John Lyly, Christopher Marlowe, and a

group of university-educated playwrights collectively labeled ‘University

Wits’.

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The University Wits

Come foorth you witts, that vaunt the pompe of speach, And strive to thunder from a

Stage-man’s throate: View Menaphon a note beyond your reach; Whose sight will make

your drumming descant doate; Players avant, you know not to delight; Welcome sweete

Shepheard; worth a Scholler’s sight.

(Thomas Brabine, preface to Robert Greene’s Menaphon, 1589)

The so-called University Wits set the stage for the theatrical Renaissance of

Elizabethan England and prepared the way for William Shakespeare, who

was not university educated.

The University Wits is a collective denomination employed in order to

refer to a group of Elizabethan playwrights who were formally educated at

the universities of Oxford or Cambridge and who became dramatists after

completing their studies. Among the most prominent members of this group

one can mention Christopher Marlowe, Robert Greene, and Thomas Nashe,

graduates of Cambridge, and John Lyly, Thomas Lodge, George Peele, who

studied at Oxford. Thomas Kyd is also sometimes included in this group,

although he did not attend any university. His plays, however, bare striking

similarities to the ones of the other members of this group. The University

Wits were looked upon as the literary elite of the epoch.

Several defining features were shared by all of the University Wits’

plays:

heroic themes, such as the lives and deeds of great historical figures

(e.g. Marlowe’s Tamburlaine);

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heroic treatment of these themes: elaborate descriptions, bombastic

speeches, violent actions and emotions;

heroic style: This was probably the most evident shortcoming of the

University Wits’ plays, because in their quest for grandiose effects

they often abused style and achieved mere bombast, and in the worst

cases even stylistic nonsense. The most fitted medium for such

modes of expression was blank verse, which could bear the pressure

of these stylistic methods more efficiently;

tragic themes: These highbrow dramatists did not feel at ease in

dealing with what were considered to be the lower species of comedy.

Therefore, real humour is very seldomly present in early Elizabethan

drama, with the only notable exception being John Lyly.

This is how The Cambridge History of English and American

Literature describes the University Wits’ intellectual and artistic

achievements:

As a group, then, these contemporaries illustrate well the possible attitudes of an

educated man of their time toward the drama. Midway between Lyly and his

successful practice of the drama, which for the most cultivated men and women of

his day, maintained and developed standards supplied to him, at least in part, by his

university, and Thomas Lodge, who put the drama aside as beneath a cultivated man

of manifold activities, stand Nashe, Peele and Greene. Nashe, feeling the attraction

of a popular and financially alluring form, shows no special fitness for it, is never

really at home in it and gives it relatively little attention. Peele, properly endowed for

his best expression in another field, spends his strength in the drama because, at the

time, it is the easiest source of revenue, and turns from the drama of the cultivated to

the drama of the less cultivated or the uncultivated. Greene, from the first, is the

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facile, adaptive purveyor of wares to which he is helped by his university experience,

but to which he gives a highly popular presentation. Through Nashe and Lodge, the

drama gains nothing. Passing through the hands of Lyly, Greene and even Peele, it

comes to Shakespeare something quite different from what it was before they wrote.

University-bred one and all, these five men were proud of their breeding. However

severe from time to time might be their censures of their intellectual mother, they

were always ready to take arms against the unwarranted assumption, as it seemed to

them, of certain dramatists who lacked this university training, and to confuse them

by the sallies of their wit. One and all, they demonstrated their right to the title

bestowed upon them—“university wits.” (http://www.bartleby.com/215/0623.html)

The University Wits first appeared on the Elizabethan literary scene in

the early 1580s and had almost completely vanished from it by the mid

1590s.  Some studied together at the Merchant Taylor’s School, and then at

the Inns of Court in the Holborne district of London.  Some wrote poetry,

some tales, some plays, and some even devoted themselves to all three

genres.  Little is known about them and for some we rely exclusively on

their reputation for sources of information about their life and work.  It is,

however, indubitable that they all wrote in a “pre-Shakespearean” style that

set them off from the writers of the previous, much less sophisticated eras.

David Horne, author of the sole biography of George Peele, notes: “All were

learned and classical in their tastes and interested in courtly literature” (70).  

Recent theories establish several of these dramatists as the authors of works

that Shakespeare “rewrote” in the 1590s, and most of them are credited with

having produced many anonymous works of the Elizabethan period. George

Peele and Robert Greene are the most commonly referred to when it comes

to the issue of Shakespeare’s uncertain authorship, but almost all of them

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have been assigned to at least a partial authorship of some or other play by

Shakespeare.  The reason for this is that their style is often so strikingly

similar to early Shakespearean productions that scholars cannot point to any

notable difference.

In spite of their formal education, the University Wits do not always

enjoy an entirely positive reputation, and this is largely due to the fact that

what is actually known about them is often fragmentary and sometimes

contradictory.  We know, for instance, that Thomas Lodge was a spend-thrift

in his youth and that Marlowe was killed in what appears to have been a

tavern brawl - but most probably this bad reputation was attached to the

whole group solely because of the bad reputations of Robert Greene (mostly

created by himself) or George Peele (created by a posthumous

pamphleteer).  The truth is that most of these dramatists were educated men

with respectable reputations in their own lifetimes, who built respectable

careers for themselves in later life, not only as playwrights, but also as

secretaries to statesmen and members of Parliament. The apparent

mystification that surrounds these writers is probably only an extension of

the mystification that surrounds Shakespeare.  It is even speculated that

some of them were real individuals, while others were just

proxies/alternative identities for Court writers.

The University Wits include the following Elizabethan playwrights:

Christopher Marlowe

Robert Greene

Thomas Nashe

Thomas Lodge

George Peele

John Lyly

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Thomas Kyd

In light of the fact that Lyly and Marlowe will be dealt with in separate

sections, we will devote our attention in what follows to the remaining five

dramatists: Greene, Nashe, Lodge, Peele and Kyd.

Robert Greene (1558 – 1592)

Deceiving world, that with alluring toys

Hast made my life the subject of thy scorn,

And scornest now to lend thy fading joys,

T'outlength my life, whom friends have left forlorn;

How well are they that die ere they be born,

And never see thy sleights, which few men shun

Till unawares they helpless are undone!

(from Groatsworth of Wit)

Greene’s literary reputation is largely tied not only to his dramatic

productions, but primarily to a certain posthumous pamphlet commonly

attributed to him, Greene's Groats-Worth of Wit, thought to contain a thinly

veiled attack on William Shakespeare. Born in Norwich, Greene later on

attended Cambridge University, receiving his B.A. in 1580, and an M.A. in

1583. After this he moved to London, where, some argue, he became the

first professional author in England. Greene managed to support himself

through his own writing, a rather seldomly encountered situation in

Elizabethan England. Some of his biographers disagree whether he was the

son of a humble saddler or of a prosperous innkeeper with landowning

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relatives. Throughout his writing career, Greene toyed with many literary

genres including autobiography, drama, and romances, and his scandalous

reputation, which he himself helped create and sustain, worked in favor of

enforcing his literary image and keeping the public’s interest in his

productions alive.

Apart from the supposed pamphlet on Shakespeare, Greene also

seems to have caused a public scandal by marrying a wealthy woman named

Doll, and later abandoning her, after spending a considerable sum of her

money. He was one of the notorious intellectuals and rascals of his age,

cultivating his scandalous reputation to a large extent himself, either by

means of pamphlets describing his adventures amid the ‘questionable’

characters of Elizabethan England, or through memorable public

appearances wearing fashionable dress and his characteristic pointy red

beard.

In 1583 Greene’s literary career set off with the publication of a long

romance entitled Mamillia. In the following years he produced several

other romances written in a highly elaborate style, reaching stylistic

perfection in the works Pandosto (1588) and Menaphon (1589). He often

incorporated short poems and even songs in some of the romances, and this

ranked him also as a lyrical poet. One song from Menaphon, entitled Weep

not my wanton smile upon my knee was immensely successful during his

lifetime and is now probably his best-known work. Apart from drama and

romance, Greene dealt with a variety of other literary genres. He composed

numerous moral dialogs, and even produced some scientific writings on the

properties of stones and other matters.

Greene's plays which have come down to us include The Scottish

History of James IV, Alphonsus, and his greatest popular success, Friar

22

Bacon and Friar Bungay (c. 1589), as well as Orlando Furioso. In addition

to this it is speculated by several critics that he may also have contributed to

numerous other plays, and may have written a second part to Friar Bacon. In

addition to the acknowledged plays, Greene has also been proposed as the

author of a number of other dramas, including The Troublesome Reign of

King John, George a Greene, Fair Em, A Knack to Know a

Knave, and Edward III, to name but a few – even Shakespeare's Titus

Andronicus was according to some exegetes one of Greene’s productions.

Greene’s main merit was that he wrote prolifically and actually

managed to support himself (and his eccentric lifestyle) in an epoch when

professional authorship was virtually unknown. By means of his biting

pamphlets, Greene basically turned himself into a notorious public figure, by

telling colorful stories of rascals tricking honorable citizens and taking their

hard-earned money. These stories almost always incorporate facts taken

from his own life and disguised as fiction. In these pamphlets he

fictionalizes his own riotous living, his marriage and the subsequent

desertion of his wife and child for the sister of a character of the London

underworld, his dealings with players, and his success in the production of

plays for them.

His fame, however, rests chiefly on the aforementioned

pamphlet Greene's Groats-Worth of Wit bought with a Million of

Repentance, which according to most scholars contains the earliest mention

of Shakespeare as a member of 16th century London's dramatic community.

Shakespeare is highly ironized in this pamphlet for being an actor who has

the audacity to write plays, and even for committing plagiarism:

23

[...] for there is an upstart Crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tygers

hart wrapt in a Players hyde, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blanke

verse as the best of you: and being an absolute Johannes fac totum, is in his owne

conceit the onely Shake-scene in a countrey.

Greene speaks about an actor who believes he can write as well as

university-educated playwrights, using the term "Shake-scene," a term never

used before or after Greene's text. Though some critics argue that

Shakespeare had yet no published works in 1592, most scholars believe that

he is undoubtedly the target of the pamphlet. During this period Shakespeare

could just as well have been a mere "upstart", an actor who is writing and

contributing to plays such as Henry VI and King John, which were produced

(even if not published) before Greene's death. Other exegetes hold that the

reference is to another actor, Edward Alleyn, whom Greene had attacked in

an earlier pamphlet, using strikingly similar language.

Throughout his writing career Greene produced the following plays

which have come down to us:

Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (circa 1590)

The History of Orlando Furioso (circa 1590)

A Looking Glass for London and England (in collaboration with

Thomas Lodge, circa 1590)

The Scottish History of James the Fourth (circa 1590)

The Comical History of Alphonsus, King of Aragon (circa 1590)

Selimus, Emperor of the Turks (1594)

Further Reading

24

Hart, C. H. “Robert Greene’s Prose Works”. Notes and Queries, Ser. X, vol.

V, 1905.

Herford, C. H. “On Greene’s Romances and Shakespere”. New Shaksp. Soc.

Trans., 1888.

Koeppel, E. “Locrine and Selimus”. Shakesp. Jahrb. vol. XLI, pp. 193–200,

1905.

Mertius, O. “Robert Greene und ``the play of George-a-Greene, the Pinner

of Wakefield” (Diss.) Breslau, 1885.

Wolff, S. L. “Robert Greene and the Italian Renaissance”. Engl. Stud. vol.

XXXVII, part III, 1907.

Thomas Nashe (1567-1601)

Adieu, farewell earths blisse,This world uncertaine is,

Fond are lifes lustful joyes,Death proves them all but toyes,

None from his darts can flye;I am sick, I must dye:

Lord, have mercy on us.

(from Summers last Will and Testament)

Born in Lowestoft, Thomas Nashe was and educated at St John's College,

Cambridge, and after completing his studies in 1586, he became one of the

"University Wits". The beginning of his writing career was the year 1589,

when he published a preface to Robert Greene's Menaphon. Nashe’s preface

25

was essentially an attack aimed at contemporary writers who plagiarized

from classical authors, and a praise directed at Edmund Spenser and Greene.

The Anatomie of Absurditie was also published in 1589, and once more

satirized contemporary authors and literature, especially the romances so

beloved by Elizabethans. His ironic and satirical style became his hallmark

and Nashe even participated in the Martin Marprelate controversy,

answering (by means of pamphlets) attacks aimed at the Church of England

by a Puritan group of writers known as Martin Marprelate. Employing the

pen name of 'Pasquil', Nashe produced several satiric pamphlets, the most

famous one being An Almond for a Parrat (1590).

Following in the footsteps of his close friend Greene and the latter’s

questionable reputation and heated temper, Nashe also participated in a

violent literary controversy with the poet Gabriel Harvey and his brother

Richard. Richard Harvey had previously expressed himself rather negatively

regarding Nashe's preface to Greene's Menaphon, and Nashe sought revenge

by writing Pierce Penniless, His Supplication to the Devil (1592). It was yet

again a satirical attack, this time focused on the Harveys, as well as on the

participants in the Marprelate controversy. The work also speaks up against

the public's indifference towards truly valuable writers. In response, Gabriel

Harvey wrote a disrespectful description of Greene's final days in his Four

Letters, and Nashe replied promptly in 1593 by writing Four Letters

Confuted, where he defends his dead friend's memory.

Struck by apparent remorse, Nashe seems to have tried to make peace

with the Harveys in Christs Teares over Jerusalem (1593), a moralizing

prose work which warned Londoners that unless they changed their conduct,

London would suffer the fate of Jerusalem. Unimpressed, Gabriel Harvey

launched a new attack on Nashe's Pierce Penniless in his work Pierce's

26

Supererogation (1593), to which Nashe replied in his turn with Have with

You to Saffron Walden (1596). This absurd conflict finally came to an end in

1599, when Archbishop Whitgift and Bishop Bancroft decreed that "all

Nasshes bookes and Doctor Harveyes bookes be taken wheresoever they

maye be found and that none of theire bookes bee ever printed hereafter."

Apart from these minor productions prompted by literary rivalry,

Nashe's most acclaimed work, the novel The Unfortunate Traveller, or The

Life of Jack Wilton (1594) is now looked upon as the first picaresque novel

in English literature. Among his other more important writings one can

name Summer's Last Will and Testament, a masque (1600); The Terrors of

the Night, an attack on demonology; and Lenten Stuff (1599).

Nashe's death is veiled in mystery. He died in 1601, aged only 34,

theories concerning his death ranging from the plague to food poisoning or a

stroke. Thomas Dekker describes Nashe in Elysium as "still haunted with the

sharp and satirical spirit that followed him here upon earth", and an

anonymous Elizabethan author paid tribute to Nashe by stating:

Let all his faults sleep with his mournful chest,

And there for ever with his ashes rest.

His style was witty, though it had some gall,

Some things he might have mended, so may all.

Yet this I say, that for a mother wit,

Few men have ever seen the like of it.

Thomas Nashe’s most important works are:

The Anatomy of Absurdity (1589)

An Almond for a Parrot (1590)

27

Pierce Penniless His Supplication to the Devil (1592)

Strange News (1592)

Christs Teares over Jerusalem (1593)

The Unfortunate Traveller (1594)

The Terrors of the Night (1594)

Have With You to Saffron-Walden (1596)

Summer's Last Will and Testament (1600)

The Choise of Valentines (?)

Further Reading

Cunliffe, J. W. “Nash and the Earlier Hamlet”. Publ. of Modern Language

Association, vol. XXI, pp. 193–9, 1906.

Nicholson, M. D. “The date of Summer’s Last Will and Testament”. The

Athenaeum, 10 January, 1891.

Thomas Lodge (c.15574-1625)

With orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view.

(from Rosalynde)

Thomas Lodge was an Elizabethan dramatist whose literary fame rests

chiefly on the prose romance Rosalynde, which was most probably the 4 http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/345968/Thomas-Lodge

28

source and inspiration of William Shakespeare's comedy As You Like It.

Born into a prominent family, he disobeyed his parents’ will and took up

literature as a profession. He was the son of Sir Thomas Lodge, who was

lord mayor of London in 1562, and was educated at Merchant Taylors’

School and at Trinity College, Oxford. He also studied law at Lincoln’s Inn,

London. His first work, just like in the case of Nashe, was a pamphlet, which

was however banned immediately after publication. The pamphlet was a

counter-recation to Stephen Gosson’a Schoole of Abuse (1579), to which

Lodge responded with Defence of Poetry, Music and Stage Plays (1579 or

1580). The pamphlet was, as previously mentioned, banned, but appears to

have been circulated privately. In order to escape poverty and not being able

to make a living out of writing, he took several long and unfortunately non-

productive sea voyages and later became an acclaimed physician both in

London and abroad. 

His work An Alarum Against Usurers (1584), tried to warn naïve

Elizabethans about the unorthodox practices of moneylenders who lured

young heirs into extravagance and debt. His Scillaes Metamorphosis (1589),

an Ovidian verse fable, is one of the earliest English poems based on the re-

telling of a classical story with imaginative additions, and it is supposed to

have strongly influenced Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis. Phillis (1593)

contains amorous sonnets based on French and Italian models. In A Fig for

Momus (1595), for the first time in English literature, he used classical

satires and verse epistles (seeking inspiration in the productions of Juvenal

and Horace). Aside from Rosalynde (1590), which provided the plot for

Shakespeare’s comedy, Lodge also wrote another romance entitled A

Margarite of America (1596), which is a mixture of Senecan motives and

Arcadian romance and pictures the impossible love story between a prince

29

and the daughter of the king of Muscovy. During the same period he also

wrote a number of moralizing pamphlets such as Wits Miserie, and the

Worlds Madnesse (1596), and in 1594 he published two plays: The Wounds

of Civill War, and, in collaboration with Robert Greene, A Looking Glasse

for London and England.

To escape poverty Lodge undertook several freebooting voyages to

the Canary Islands and to South America. In 1597 he became a Roman

Catholic, and he graduated in medicine from the University of Avignon in

1598. He received another M.D. degree from Oxford in 1602 and thereafter

practiced medicine in London and in Brussels, where he sought refuge in the

aftermath of the Gunpowder Plot. In 1612 he returned to England and

became a distinguished physician in London, where he died fighting the

plague in 1625. His later works include A Treatise of the Plague (1603) and

two major translations: The Works of Lucius Annaeus Seneca (1614)

and The Famous and Memorable Works of Josephus (1620).

Lodge's dramatic works are reduced in terms of quantity. Before his

collaboration with Robert Greene he had already written The Wounds of

Civil War (published in 1594), a play written in the half-chronicle fashion of

its age. Mucedorus and Amadine, played by the Queen's Men about 1588, is

supposed to have been authored by Lodge, as is Shakespeare's 2nd part

of Henry VI. He is also regarded as at least part-author of The True

Chronicle of King Leir and his three Daughters (1594); and The

Troublesome Raigne of John, King of England (c. 1588). In the latter part of

his life—possibly about 1596, he published his Wits Miserie and the World's

Madnesse, and the religious tract Prosopopeia, in which he repents him of

his "lewd lines" of other days under the influence of his recent conversion to

Roman Catholicism.

30

To conclude, one might state that Lodge’s work before 1600 was to a

large extent merely translation from Latin, French or Italian originals, but

even here he shows a real talent for creative selection and assimilation. His

reputation remains based chiefly on his poetry and his romances, while his

style is according to some critics reminiscent of the writings of Thomas

Nashe.

Lodge’s most acclaimed productions are:

Defence of Poetry, Music and Stage Plays (1579 or 1580)

Scillaes Metamorphosis, Enterlaced with the Unfortunate Love of

Glaucus (1580)

Alarum Against Usurers (1585)

The Delectable History of Forbonius and Prisceria (1585)

Rosalynde, Euphues Golden Legacie (1590)

The History of Robert, Second Duke of Normandy, surnamed Robert

the Devil (1591)

Catharos Diogenes in his Singularity (1591)

Euphues Shadow, the Battaile of the Sences (1592)

Life and Death of William Longbeard (1593)

A Looking Glass for London and England (1594, in collaboration with

Robert Greene)

The Wounds of Civil War (1594)

A Fig for Momus (1595)

A Margarite of America (1596)

Wits Miserie and the World's Madnesse (c.1596)

Treatise of the Plague (1603)

Translations: from Josephus (1602), from Seneca (1614)

31

Further Reading

Ingleby, C. M. “Thomas Lodge and the Stage”. Notes and Queries, Ser. VI,

vol. XI, pp. 107–415, 1885.

George Peele (1558-1598)

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,

  And lovers’ songs be turned to holy psalms;

A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,

  And feed on prayers, which are old age’s alms.

(from Polyhimnia)

One of the most notable and prolific of the University Wits, George Peele

was called by fellow playwright Robert Green “in some things rarer, in

nothing inferior, to Christopher Marlowe”. Thomas Nashe, in his preface to

Greene's Menaphon, refers to him as “the chief supporter of pleasance now

living, the Atlas of Poetrie and primus verborum artifex, whose first

encrease, the Arraignement of Paris, might plead to your opinions his

pregnant dexteritie of wit and manifold varietie of invention, wherein (me

judice) hee goeth a step beyond all that write”. This high praise coming

simultaneously from two other notable Elizabethan playwrights was not at

all unfounded. The unquestionable merits of Greene and Marlowe in what

the increased dignity of English dramatic diction is concerned, and with

32

regard to the new smoothness infused into blank verse, were certainly also

shared by Peele.

Peele was born in London to a father who seems to have hailed from a

Devonshire family, and was clerk of Christ's Hospital. Peele’s father also

seems to have possessed dome talent for writing, as evinced by his having

written two treatises on book-keeping. Peele himself was educated at

Christ's Hospital, and was admitted to Broadgates Hall (Pembroke College),

Oxford, in 1571. Starting 1574 he continued his studies at Christ Church,

receiving his B.A. in 1577, and his M.A. in 1579. In 1579 the governors of

Christ's Hospital thought it was high time for young George to being earning

his own livelihood and they requested their clerk to “discharge his house of

his son, George Peele”.

In the aftermath of this decision, Peele moved to London in 1580. His

professional writing career took off in 1583 when Albertus Alasco, a Polish

aristocrat, was entertained at Christ Church, Oxford, and Peele was

commissioned to arrange two Latin plays by performed on this occasion.

During the same time-span he also produced an English verse translation of

one of the Iphigenias of Euripides. In 1591 he devised a pageant in honour

of lord mayor Sir William Webbe. It was entitled the Descensus Astraeae, in

which Queen Elizabeth is portrayed as Astræa.

In 1583 Peele married a lady who brought him some property, which

he speedily dissipated (much in the same fashion as Robert Greene). Greene

himself, at the end of his Groatsworth of Wit, advices Peele to repent,

arguing that Peele has, just like himself, “been driven to extreme shifts for a

living.” His reckless eistence was thematized in the work Merrie conceited

Jests of George Peele (printed 1607). There are personal touches identifiable

in this piece of writing that may be biographical. Peele died before 1598 –

33

evidence for this is the fact that Francis Meres, writing in that year, speaks

of his death in his work Palladis Tamia.

Peele was maybe the most prolific of the University Wits. His pastoral

comedy The Araygnement of Paris, presented by the Children of the Chapel

Royal before Queen Elizabeth perhaps as early as 1581, was printed

anonymously in 1584. Charles Lamb argues that if Peele’s text had been less

uneven in execution, it would have surpassed even Fletcher's Faithful

Shepherdess which would have thus become “but a second name in this sort

of writing”. His Famous Chronicle of King Edward the first, sirnamed

Edward Longshankes, with his returne from the holy land. Also the life of

Lleuellen, rebell in Wales. Lastly, the sinking of Queen Elinor, who suncke

at Charingcrosse, and rose again at Pottershith, now named Queenehith,

was printed in 1593. This chronicle play, quite formless, as the

exaggeratedly long title shows, is nevertheless a step forward as compared to

the traditional chronicle plays, and ushers in the Shakespearian historical

drama. Apart from the works clearly attributed to Peele, he is considered by

some critics to have authored or at least contributed to the play Titus

Andronicus, which is normally attributed to Shakespeare. This theory is

based on the similarities between Titus Andronicus and The Battell of

Alcazar with the Death of Captaine Stukeley (printed 1594), published

anonymously, which is attributed with much probability to Peele. The Old

Wives Tale, printed 1595, was followed by The Love of King David and Fair

Bethsabe, printed 1599, which is a fine example of Elizabethan drama based

entirely on Scriptural sources. Some exegetes have interpreted it as a

political satire, identifying Elizabeth and Leicester with David and

Bathsheba. Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes (printed 1599) has been

attributed to Peele, but seemingly on insufficient grounds.

34

Apart from plays, Peele also wrote poetry. Among his occasional

poems we recall The Honour of the Garter, with a prologue containing

Peele's thoughts on his contemporaries, and Polyhymnia (1590), a blank

verse description of the ceremonies honouring the retirement of the Queen's

champion, Sir Henry Lee. Peele is also credited by some critics with the

authorship of The Wisdom of Doctor Doddipoll (printed 1600), Wily

Beguiled (printed 1606), The Life and Death of Jack Straw, a Notable Rebel

(1587?), as well as a participation in the First and Second Parts of Henry VI.

F.B. Gummere, in a preface to his edition of The Old Wives Tale,

praises Peele, noting that in the contrast between the romantic story and the

realistic dialogue we can witness the first instance of humour different from

the one of the earlier comedies. The Old Wives Tale is, according to

Gummere, a play within a play, and could perhaps be better described as an

interlude. The play not only offers a background of rustic folklore, but also

pokes fun at Elizabethan authors Gabriel Harvey and Richard Stanyhurst,

much in the same vein identifiable in Greene’s writings.

Peele’s complete list of works encompasses:

Poetry:

Polyhymnia (1590)

The Honour of the Garter (1590)

Plays:

The Arraignment of Paris (1584)

Pareus (1585)

The Device of the Pageant, etc. (1585)

King Edward I (1593)

The Battle of Alcazar (1594)

35

The Old Wives Tale (1595)

David and Bethsabe (1599)

Apocrypha:

Merrie Conceited Jests (1607)

Further Reading

“Bayley, A. R. Peele as a Dramatic Artist”. The Oxford Point of View, 15

Feb., 1903.

Kellner, L. “Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamides”. Engl. Stud. vol. XIII, 1889.

Odell, G. C. “Peele as a Dramatist”. The Bibliographer, vol. II, 1903.

Schelling, F. E. “The Source of Peele’s Arraignment of Paris”. Modern

Language Notes, vol. VIII, no. 4, pp. 206–8, 1893.

Thomas Kyd (1558-c.1594)

Let dangers go; thy war shall be with me,

But such a war, as breaks no bonds of peace.

Speak thou fair words, I'll cross them with fair words;

Send thou sweet looks, I'll meet them with sweet looks;

Write loving lines, I'll answer loving lines;

Give me a kiss, I'll countercheck thy kiss.

Be this our warring peace, or peaceful war.

(from The Spanish Tragedy)

36

According to most critics, Kyd was one of the top-ranking Elizabethan

dramatists who paved the way for the apparition of Shakespeare. In spite of

this, until the last decade of the eighteenth century, Kyd appears to have

been veiled in impenetrable obscurity. Not even his name surfaced until

Thomas Hawkins discovered it in 1773 in connection with The Spanish

Tragedy in Thomas Heywood's Apologie for Actors. Owing to the collective

efforts of English and German scholars, recently an astounding amount of

details have been discovered about his life and writings.

The literary importance of Kyd is the one of a pioneer in the field of

secular drama in England, and more and more critics assert what that his is

the position of a leader and almost of an inventor among the other University

Wits. Regarded from this vantage point, his best work, The Spanish

Tragedy, is of extraordinary value, since it is the earliest specimen of

effective stage poetry in English literature. The Encyclopedia Britannica

notes that “it had been preceded only by the pageant-poems of Peele and

Lyly, in which all that constitutes in the modern sense theatrical technique

and effective construction was entirely absent”5. The Spanish Tragedy,

which was the earliest stage-play of the great period, was also the most

popular, and managed to retain this degree of popularity through the careers

of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Fletcher. Unfortunately, due to its rather

archaic versification, in 1602 the play started receiving several additions,

which have been great stumbling blocks for Kyd’s critics.

Thomas’ father was Francis Kyd, scrivener of London, and Thomas

was baptized in the church of St Mary Woolnoth, Lombard Street, on the 6th

of November 1558. His mother, who survived her son, was named Agnes, or

Anna. In October 1565 Kyd enrolled at the Merchant Taylors' School, where

5 Encyclopedia Britannica, 11th Ed., vol. XV. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1910.

37

Edmund Spenser and maybe also Thomas Lodge were at different times his

school-fellows. According to most scholars, Kyd did not attend any

university afterwards; instead, soon after leaving school, he took over his

father's business as a scrivener. Kyd appears to have done a considerable

amount of reading in Latin. The author who most clearly influenced him is

Seneca, but there are many traces, and occasionally even translations from,

other authors.

Fellow dramatist Thomas Nashe describes him as a “shifting

companion that ran through every art and throve by none”, contemptuously

stating that the “English Seneca read by candlelight yeeldes many good

sentences”. John Lyly appears to have had a stronger influence on Kyd’s

style than any of his other contemporaries.

The Spanish Tragedy is Kyd’s most famous play and was probably

written between 1584 and 1589; and the play was licensed for the press in

1592. The full title is: The Spanish Tragedie Containing the Lamentable End

of Don Horatio and Bel-Imperia; with the Pitiful Death of Old Hieronimo . It

enjoyed such an enormous success all through the age of Elizabeth, and even

of James I and Charles I, that it has often been labeled the most popular of

all old English plays.

Apparently in 1592 a prologue was added to The Spanish Tragedy,

called The First Part of Jeronimo, or The Warres of Portugal. Some critics,

however, note that Kyd had nothing to do with this melodramatic

production, which offers a different version of the story and presents

Jeronimo as little more than a buffoon. On the other hand, recent research

has proven that the so-called ‘Ur-Hamlet’, the original draft of

Shakespeare’s tragedy of the prince of Denmark, was almost surely a lost

38

work by Kyd, probably written in 1587. It seems that traces of Kyd's play

survive in the first two acts of the 1603 first quarto of Hamlet.

Kyd's next production was probably the Tragedy of Soliman and

Perseda, published in 1592, which, although anonymous, is traditionally

assigned to him. No copy of the first edition has been preserved; but it was

reprinted, after Kyd's death, in 1599.

In 1590 Kyd gave up writing for the stage, and entered the service of a

nobleman, who employed a troop of players. He was probably the private

secretary of this man, whom some exegetes identify with Robert Radcliffe,

fifth Earl of Sussex. Bridget Morison of Cassiobury was Radcliffe’s wife

and to her Kyd dedicated in the last year of his life a translation of Gamier's

Comedia. Apart from his dramatic productions, two prose works authored by

him have survived, a treatise on domestic economy, The House-Holders

Philosophy, translated from Tasso (1588), and A Sensational Account of The

Most Wicked and Secret Murdering of John Brewer, Goldsmith (1592).

Kyd’s private life is also matter of much controversy. Towards the

end of his life he seems to have had close relations with Christopher

Marlowe, whom he probably met in 1590, soon after he entered the service

of the nobleman. Even though Kyd himself declared that he “shrank at once

from Marlowe as a man intemperate and of a cruel heart and irreligious”,

historical evidence shows that there was a good deal of apparent intimacy

between him and Marlowe. When in 1593, the blasphemies of Marlowe

came before the notice of the Star Chamber, Kyd was immediately arrested,

papers of his having been found along with some of Marlowe's, who was

imprisoned a week later. In his chamber a heretical paper denying the deity

of Jesus Christ was found. In spite of being subjected to torture, Kyd

claimed that he knew nothing of this document and tried to blame Marlowe,

39

but he was kept in prison until June 1593. When he was released, his patron

refused to take him back into his service and Kyd fell into utter destitution.

He probably died in 1594.

The influence of Kyd on all the immediate predecessors of

Shakespeare is undeniable, and the bold way in which scenes of violent

crime were treated on the Elizabethan stage later on appears to be owing to

Kyd's dramatic genius. Apart from Hamlet, the play Titus Andronicus seems

to contain so many of his characteristics of style, that some critics have

supposed the tragedy to be a work of Kyd's, touched up by Shakespeare. In

addition to this, The Spanish Tragedy was for a rather long time the best

known of all Elizabethan plays abroad. It was performed in Frankfurt in

1601, published soon afterwards in Nuremberg, and continued to be a

popular piece in Germany until the beginning of the 18th century.

Apparently it was equally popular in Holland, and had a far-reaching effect

upon Dutch dramatic literature.

Thomas Kyd’s works are:

Poetry:

On Chidiock Tichborne

Plays:

The Spanish Tragedy (1591)

Miscellaneous:

Kyd's Letters to Sir John Puckering

Works of uncertain authorship:

The Tragedy of Soliman and Perseda

The First Part of Ieronimo

40

Further Reading

Erne, Lukas. Beyond the Spanish Tragedy: A Study of the Works of Thomas

Kyd, Manchester University Press 2002.

Freeman, Arthur. Thomas Kyd: Facts and Problems, Oxford, 1967.

John Lyly (1554-1606)

It is far more seemly 

to have thy Studie full of Bookes, 

than thy Purse full of money.

(from  Euphues, the Anatomy of Wit)

41

Born in Kent, Lyly was brought up in Canterbury where he probably

attended King's School along with Marlowe. He received his M.A. at

Magdalen College, University of Oxford, in 1575. After failing to receive

financial support from Lord Burghley for a fellowship, Lyly finally moved

to London.

He received ublic acclaim for his prose romance Euphues, or the

Anatomy of Wit (1578) and its sequel Euphues and His England (1580). The

term Euphues is Greek for "graceful", and Euphuism, the elaborate prose

style introduced by Lyly, was extremely popular in the 1580s. This so-called

euphuistic style has two distinct characteristics: an especially elaborate

sentence structure based on parallel figures from ancient rhetoric, and a

wealth of ornament including proverbs, incidents from history and poetry,

and similes drawn from pseudoscience, from Pliny, from textbooks, or from

the author's imagination. Lyly's style decisively influenced other Elizabethan

writers, most notably Shakespeare.

In 1583, Lyly married Beatrice Browne. The same year he wrote

several prose comedies for children's companies, among which: Campaspe

(1584), Sapho and Phao (early 1580s), Endymion: The Man in the Moon

(1586-7), Love's Metamorphosis (1589), Midas (1589), and Mother Bombie

(1589). Lyly's only verse-play was the comedy The Woman in the Moone

(1594?).

For quite some time Lyly was the most revered and fashionable

Elizbethan writer, looked upon as the author of a more refined, "new

English.” In the aftermath of the publication of his Euphues Lyly seemingly

abandoned the novel, a literary form much imitated in those days, and took

up play-writing almost exclusively. Eight of his plays were probably acted

42

before the queen by the Children of the Chapel and especially by

the Children of Paul's between the years 1584 and 1591, one or two of them

being repeated before a popular audience at the Blackfriars Theatre. Their

success was largely due to the lively dialogue, classical colour and frequent

allusions to persons and events of the day, and assured him the same degree

of popularity with the court that Euphues had attained.

Lyly’s literary reception is far from homogeneous. Even though he

was for a time the most popular Elizabethan playwright, his dialogues, for

instance, are still a long way removed from the complexity and forcefulness

of Shakespeare. However, they do represent a giant leap forward as

compared to pretty much anything which had been written before, and

Lyly’s works undoubtedly represent an important landmark in English

dramatic art. His wit which often struggles with pedantry echoes, according

to many critical voices, in the dialogue of Shakespearean comedies such as

Twelfth Night and Much Ado about Nothing.

In judging Lyly’s dramatic position and the effects of his plays upon

his time one must keep in mind that his classical and mythological plots, dull

as they would now appear to a modern audience, were highly interesting to

the courtly spectators who saw in Midas Philip II, Elizabeth in Cynthia and

perhaps Leicester's unwelcome marriage with Lady Sheffield in the love

affair between Endymion and Tellus which brings the former under

Cynthia's displeasure. His reputation and popularity during his lifetime were

impressive. Francis Meres, for instance, considers him to be one of "the best

for comedy;" and Ben Jonson names him among the worthy rivals who were

"outshone" by Shakespeare.

Lyly, like many others of the University Wits, can also be seen as one

of the crucial influences on the plays of William Shakespeare, especially the

43

romantic comedies. Love's Metamorphosis clearly influenced Love's

Labour's Lost, while Gallathea is a major source for A Midsummer Night's

Dream. 

Lyly’s most notable works are:

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit (1578)

Euphues and his England (1580)

Sappho and Phao (1584)

Campaspe (1584)

The Triumphs of Trophes (1586)

Pappe with an Hatchet (1589)

A Whip for an Ape (1589), doubtful

Mar-Martine (1589), some parts

Endymion, the Man in the Moon (1591)

Gallathea (1592)

Midas (1592)

Mother Bombie (1594)

The Woman in the Moon (1597)

The Maid's Metamorphosis (1600)

The King of Denmark's Welcome, (1606), doubtful

A Funeral Oration (1603)

Memorable Quotes from Lyly’s works:

“In misery it is great comfort to have a companion”.

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

44

“Far more seemly to have thy study full of books, 

than thy purse full of money.”

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

“Many strokes overthrow the tallest oak.” 

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

“The sun shineth upon the dunghill, and is not corrupted.”

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

“Love knoweth no laws.”

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

“Fish and Guests in three days are stale.”

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

“As the best wine doth make the sharpest vinegar, so the deepest 

love turneth to the deadliest hate.”

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

“Delays breed dangers; nothing so perilous as procrastination.”

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

“[Beauty is] a delicate bait with a deadly hook; 

a sweet panther with a devouring paunch, a sour poison

in a silver pot.”

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

45

“Assure yourself that Damon to his Pythias, Pylades 

to his Orestes, Titus to his Gysippus, Theseus to 

his Pyrothus, Scipio to his Laelius, was never found 

more faithful than Euphues will be to his Philautus.”

Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit 

“Marriages are made in heaven though consummated on Earth.”

Euphues and his England 

“Instruments sound sweetest when they be touched softest, 

women wax wisest, when they be used mildest.”

Euphues and his England 

“Hither came all such as either ventured by long travel 

to see countries or by great traffic to use merchandise, 

offering sacrifice by fire to get safety by water, yielding

thanks for perils past, and making prayers for good success

to come.”

Gallathea 

“Water runneth smoothest where it is deepest.”

Sappho and Phao 

“Martin tunes his pipe to the lamentable note of Ora whine meg.

O tis his best daunce next shaking of the sheetes; but he good

46

man meant no harm by it.”

Pappe with a Hatchet 

“Time draweth wrinkles in a fair face, 

but addeth fresh colours to a fast friend, 

which neither heat, nor cold, nor misery, 

nor place, nor destiny, can alter or diminish.”

Endymion, the Man in the Moon 

“I thank you for nothing, because I understand nothing.”

Mother Bombie 

Further Reading

Houppert, Joseph, W. John Lyly, Twayne, 1975.

Hunter, G.K. Lyly and Peele, Longmans, 1968.

Jeffrey, Violet M. John Lyly and the Italian Renaissance, Russell & Russell, 1969.

Saccio, Peter. The Court Comedies of John Lyly: A Study in Allegorical Dramaturgy, Princeton University Press, 1969.

Wilson, John D. John Lyly, Haskell House, 1969.

47

Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593)

Within the bowels of these elements,

Where we are tortured and remain forever.

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed

In one self place, for where we are is hell,

And where hell is must we ever be.

48

And, to conclude, when all the world dissolves,

And every creature shall be purified,

All places shall be hell that is not heaven. 

(from The Tragical Historie of Doctor Faustus)

One of the most fascinating and puzzling figures of Elizabethan drama, the

father of English tragedy, and the creator of dramatic blank verse, Marlowe

was the eldest son of a shoemaker at Canterbury and was born in that city on

the 6th of February 1564. He was baptized at St George's Church,

Canterbury, on the 26th of February, 1563/4, approximately two months

before Shakespeare's baptism at Stratford-upon-Avon. Marlowe first studied

at King's School, Canterbury, which he entered in 1578, where he was a

classmate of Will Lyly’s, the brother of John Lyly. He went to Cambridge as

one of Archbishop Parker's scholars from the King's School, and enrolled at

Corpus Christi College in 1571, receiving his B.A. in 1584, and his M.A.

three or four years thereafter.

The Elizabethan mystic Francis Kett, burnt at stake in 1589 for

heresy, taught at his college, and probably influenced Marlowe's

nonconformist opinions in religious matters. Marlowe's schooling consisted

mainly in readings from classical languages, with a special emphasis on

Roman mythology, and especially on Ovid's Metamorphoses. His translation

of Ovid's Amores (printed 1596), which he worked on while at Cambridge,

does not seem to indicate any special proficiency in what the grammar and

syntax of Latin are concerned. Before 1587 he left Cambridge and went to

London, where he joined the Lord Admiral's Company of Players, led by the

49

famous actor Edward Alleyn. Simultaneously he began writing his first

plays.

Marlowe's career in London is still a matter of controversy,

considering that apart from his four great theatrical successes, we know next

to nothing about his life during this period. We do, however, know for sure

that he knew Thomas Kyd, and that they shared the same unorthodox

outlooks upon life. Fellow playwright Thomas Nashe criticized his writings,

and Robert Greene was scandalized by his atheism. Some sources seem to

indicate that Marlowe was also the close friend of Sir Walter Raleigh. Either

this friendship or the offensive character of some of the young dramatist's

productions seems to have made many think that his morals were highly

questionable. Faced with this kind of belligerent attitude coming from his

contemporaries, Marlowe developed an even more insurgent response. He

was associated in many of his contemporaries’ minds with Sir Walter

Raleigh's school of atheism, and his beliefs often placed him outside the

boundaries of civilized society.

Marlowe’s career came to an abrupt and unfortunate halt in 1593 due

to his untimely death. As the result of a testimony made by Thomas Kyd

under torture, the Privy Council started investigating some serious charges

against Marlowe. An order had already been issued for his arrest, when the

playwright was killed in a tavern brawl by a man named Archer or Ingram.

He was buried at Deptford. In order to cover up the circumstances of his

death, the following September Gabriel Harvey claimed that Marlowe was

“dead of the plague”. The disgraceful details attached to his reputation only

surfaced four years later (1597) when Thomas Beard, the Puritan author of

The Theatre of God's Judgements, used Marlowe’s death as one of his

warning examples of the vengeance of God. Several additions were then

50

made to the story, such as that of Francis Meres, in 1598, who claimed that

Marlowe was “stabbed to death by a bawdy servingman, a rival of his in his

lewde love”, or that of William Vaughan, who argues that Marlowe’s dagger

was thrust into his own eye, in order to prevent the drunken playwright to

assault an innocent man.

In spite of all of these theories, the circumstances surrounding

Marlowe's death remain uncertain. The most probable hypothesis is that he

was killed in a tavern brawl, of which there were many in his days. In what

his atheist philosophy is concerned, we should interpret it rather as a species

of rationalistic and dialectic discourse, and closely related to the rejection of

conventional orthodoxy for which Kett was burnt stake in 1589. Further

theories hold that a few months before he died Marlowe transferred his

services from the Lord Admiral's to Lord Strange's Company, and may have

thus have come into contact with Shakespeare, who in such plays as Richard

II and Richard III evinces Marlowe’s clear-cut influence.

Marlowe's four great plays are: Tamburlaine the Great, a heroic epic

in dramatic form divided into two parts (1590), The Tragical Historie of the

Life and Death of Doctor Faustus (1601), The Famous Tragedy of the Rich

Jew of Malta (1633), and Edward the Second (1594). They were all

groundbreaking achievements and marked the onset of a new era in the

history of the English stage. The introductory lines of Tamburlaine are

actually nothing more than an attack on the traditions which governed

dramatic productions in Marlowe’s times:

From jigging veins of riming mother wits

And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay

We'll lead you to the stately tent of war,

51

Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine

Threatening the world with high astounding terms

And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword.

Tamburlaine stands proudly next to Kyd's Spanish Tragedy as one of

the finest examples of pre-Shakespearian drama, and few plays have been

more copied by rivals or more satirized by competitors. Please consider the

following appraisal of Tamburlaine taken from the Encyclopedia Britannica:

With many and heavy faults, there is something of genuine greatness in

Tamburlaine the Great; and for two grave reasons it must always be remembered

with distinction and mentioned with honour. It is the first play ever written in

English blank verse, as distinguished from mere rhymeless decasyllabics; and it

contains one of the noblest passages, perhaps indeed the noblest, in the literature

of the world, ever written by one of the greatest masters of poetry in loving praise

of the glorious delights and sublime submission to the everlasting limits of his art.

In its highest and most distinctive qualities, in unfaltering and infallible command

of the right note of music and the proper tone of colour for the finest touches of

poetic execution, no poet of the most elaborate modern school, working at ease

upon every consummate resource of luxurious learning and leisurely refinement,

has ever excelled the best and most representative work of a man who had

literally no models before him and probably or evidently was often if not always

compelled to write against time for his living.

Marlowe’s fame, however, rests chiefly on his masterpiece The

Tragical Historie of Doctor Faustus. Goethe expressed himself in the

highest terms regarding the Faustus of his English predecessor, and greatly

appreciated Marlowe’s tragic treatment of the same subject. “Of all great

poems in dramatic form it is perhaps the most remarkable for absolute

52

singleness of aim and simplicity of construction; yet is it wholly free from

all possible imputation of monotony or aridity”, the Encyclopedia Britannica

states. Whereas Tamburlaine is quite monotonous and often employs stately

and sonorous verse, as well as a noisy wilderness of perpetual bluster and

slaughter, the unity of tone and purpose in Doctor Faustus is doubled by

change of manner and variety of incident.

Few literary masterpieces of any epoch or in any language can equal

Marlowe’s tragedy in splendour, intensity of purpose and sublimity of note:

In the vision of Helen, for example, the intense perception of loveliness gives

actual sublimity to the sweetness and radiance of mere beauty in the passionate

and spontaneous selection of words the most choice and perfect; and in like

manner the sublimity of simplicity in Marlowe's conception and expression of the

agonies endured by Faustus under the immediate imminence of his doom gives

the highest note of beauty, the quality of absolute fitness and propriety, to the

sheer straightforwardness of speech in which his agonizing horror finds vent ever

more and more terrible from the first to the last equally beautiful and fearful verse

of that tremendous monologue which has no parallel in all the range of tragedy.

(Encyclopedia Britannica)

In what The Jew of Malta is concerned, one can note that most critics

observe and regret the decline of power and interest after the opening acts.

This decline is undeniable, though even the latter part of the play is

characterized by a certain degree of rough energy. According to critics, it

was only the blank verse of Milton that surpassed the melody of passages in

the opening soliloquy of Barabbas. The figure of the protagonist before it is

turned into caricature is finely sketched and the poetic execution on

Marlowe’s part is excellent.

53

In Marlowe’s chronicle play Edward the Second the dramatic

execution improves as visibly with the course of the advancing story as it

declines in The Jew of Malta. The scene of the king's deposition at

Kenilworth is almost finer in execution than the corresponding scene in

Shakespeare's King Richard II. The terror of the death-scene encompasses

some elements of horror; but even this horror is skillfully preserved from

passing into the realm of disgust. In strict terms of dramatic power, this play

is certainly the masterpiece of Marlowe, and it surpasses even Doctor

Faustus:

It was almost inevitable, in the hands of any poet but Shakespeare, that none of

the characters represented should be capable of securing or even exciting any

finer sympathy or more serious interest than attends on the mere evolution of

successive events or the mere display of emotions (except always in the great

scene of the deposition) rather animal than spiritual in their expression of rage or

tenderness or suffering. The exact balance of mutual effect, the final note of

scenic harmony, between ideal conception and realistic execution is not yet struck

with perfect accuracy of touch and security of hand; but on this point also

Marlowe has here come nearer by many degrees to Shakespeare than any of his

other predecessors have ever come near to Marlowe.

Of The Massacre at Paris (1600?) the Encyclopedia Britannica states

that

This is obviously an occasional and polemical work, and being as it is

overcharged with the anti-Catholic passion of the time has a typical quality which

gives it some empirical significance and interest. That antipapal ardour is indeed

the only note of unity in a rough and ragged chronicle which shambles and

stumbles onward from the death of Queen Jeanne of Navarre to the murder of the

54

last Valois. It is possible to conjecture, what it would be fruitless to affirm, that it

gave a hint in the next century to Nathaniel Lee for his far superior and really

admirable tragedy on the same subject, issued ninety-seven years after the death

of Marlowe.

Dido Queen of Carthage (a tragedy completed by Thomas Nashe, and

published in 1594), fails to become a true masterpiece mainly due to the

great similarity between it and Virgil's narrative, which was insufficiently

adapted and reworked by Marlowe. There are quite few noble passages in

this otherwise quite mediocre work. Apart from this historical tragedy,

Marlowe probably also contributed to some of the more serious scenes of

King Henry VI is mainly the work of Marlowe.

Apart from drama, Marlowe also produced various translations, some

as early as his student days at Cambridge. He translated Ovid's Elegies, but

unfortunately this work was committed to the flames on grounds of

Marlowe’s atheist views and accusations of heresy. His translation of the

first book of Lucan is at times better than the original, however, the Latin

language Marlowe employs is sometimes weightless and inexpressive, only

now and then brightened by a clearer note of poetry and lifted into a higher

mood of verse. The vigour and purity of his style are praiseworthy,

especially if we consider how close Marlowe has (in spite of occasional slips

into inaccuracy) preserved literal representation in his translation.

Marlowe is also remembered as a fine lyrical poet. From this

perspective, we cannot fail to mention his Passionate Shepherd. It is

doubtlessly one of the most faultless lyrics and one of the loveliest

fragments in Elizabethan descriptive and fanciful poetry. Hero and Leander,

another of Marlowe’s poems, closing with the sunrise following the lovers'

55

union, is unique in its age, and far ahead of the work of any possible

competitor:

In clear mastery of narrative and presentation, in melodious ease and simplicity of

strength, it is not less pre-eminent than in the adorable beauty and impeccable

perfection of separate lines or passages. It is doubtful whether the heroic couplet

has ever been more finely handled. (Encyclopedia Britannica)

To conclude, we might state that it is hardly possible to overestimate

the place and the value of Christopher Marlowe as a leader among

Elizabethan dramatists, most of which are deeply and directly indebted to

him. It was essentially Marlowe who guided Shakespeare into the direction

he was to take with his famous tragedies, and the music of his verse found

its echo in the exalted harmony of John Milton. Marlowe is considered by

critics to be the greatest discoverer, the most daring and inspired pioneer, in

all poetic literature. Before him we cannot speak neither about the existence

of genuine blank verse nor genuine tragedy in English literature.

Marlowe’s most important works are:

Plays:

The Tragedy of Dido, Queen of Carthage (1594)

Tamburlaine the Great (1590)

The Tragical Historie of Doctor Faustus (1616)

The Jew of Malta (1633)

The Tragedy of Edward II (1594)

The Massacre at Paris (1600?)

Poetry:

56

Hero and Leander (1598)

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love (1600)

Translations:

Ovid's Amores (1596)

First Book of Lucan's Pharsalia (1600)

Memorable quotes from Marlowe’s works:

“Hell is just a frame of mind.”

Doctor Faustus

“He that loves pleasure must for pleasure fall.”

Doctor Faustus

“Mephistopheles: Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.

Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God

And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

In being deprived of everlasting bliss?”

Doctor Faustus

“Fools that will laugh on earth, most weep in hell.”

Doctor Faustus

Mephistopheles: Within the bowels of these elements,

Where we are tortured and remain forever.

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed

57

In one self place, for where we are is hell,

And where hell is must we ever be.

And, to conclude, when all the world dissolves,

And every creature shall be purified,

All places shall be hell that is not heaven.

Doctor Faustus

Faustus: Stay, Mephistopheles, and tell me, what good will

my soul do thy lord?

Mephistopheles: Enlarge his kingdom.

Faustus: Is that the reason he tempts us thus?

Mephistopheles: Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.

(It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery)

Doctor Faustus

“Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed

In one self place, for where we are is hell,

And where hell is must we ever be.”

Doctor Faustus

“What art thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?”

Doctor Faustus

If we say that we have no sin,

We deceive ourselves, and there's no truth in us.

Why then belike we must sin,

And so consequently die.

58

Ay, we must die an everlasting death.

Doctor Faustus

I must have wanton Poets, pleasant wits,

Musitians, that with touching of a string

May draw the pliant king which way I please:

Musicke and poetrie is his delight,

Therefore ile have Italian maskes by night,

Sweete speeches, comedies, and pleasing showes,

And in the day when he shall walke abroad,

Like Sylvian Nimphes my pages shall be clad,

My men like Satyres grazing on the lawnes,

Shall with their Goate feete daunce an antick hay.

Sometime a lovelie boye in Dians shape,

With haire that gilds the water as it glides,

Crownets of pearle about his naked armes,

And in his sportfull hands an Olive tree,

To hide those parts which men delight to see,

Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by,

One like Actaeon peeping through the grove,

Shall by the angrie goddesse be transformde,

And running in the likenes of an Hart,

By yelping hounds puld downe, and seeme to die.

Such things as these best please his majestie,

My lord.

Edward II

59

What makes my bed seem hard seeing it is soft?

Or why slips downe the Coverlet so oft?

Although the nights be long, I sleepe not tho,

My sides are sore with tumbling to and fro.

Were Love the cause, it's like I shoulde descry him,

Or lies he close, and shoots where none can spie him?

T'was so, he stroke me with a slender dart,

Tis cruell love turmoyles my captive hart.

Yeelding or striving doe we give him might,

Lets yeeld, a burden easly borne is light.

I saw a brandisht fire increase in strength,

Which being not shakt, I saw it die at length.

Yong oxen newly yokt are beaten more,

Then oxen which have drawne the plow before.

And rough jades mouths with stubburn bits are tome,

But managde horses heads are lightly borne,

Unwilling Lovers, love doth more torment,

Then such as in their bondage feele content.

Loe I confesse, I am thy captive I,

And hold my conquered hands for thee to tie.

What needes thou warre, I sue to thee for grace,

With armes to conquer armlesse men is base,

Yoke VenusDoves, put Mirtle on thy haire,

Vulcan will give thee Chariots rich and faire.

The people thee applauding thou shalte stand,

Guiding the harmelesse Pigeons with thy hand.

Yong men and women, shalt thou lead as thrall,

60

So will thy triumph seeme magnificall.

I lately cought, will have a new made wound,

And captive like be manacled and bound.

Good meaning, shame, and such as seeke loves wrack

Shall follow thee, their hands tied at their backe.

Thee all shall feare and worship as a King,

Jo, triumphing shall thy people sing.

Smooth speeches, feare and rage shall by thee ride,

Which troopes hath alwayes bin on Cupids side:

Thou with these souldiers conquerest gods and men,

Take these away, where is thy honor then?

Thy mother shall from heaven applaud this show,

And on their faces heapes of Roses strow.

With beautie of thy wings, thy faire haire guilded,

Ride golden Love in Chariots richly builded.

Unlesse I erre, full many shalt thou burne,

And give woundes infinite at everie turne.

In spite of thee, forth will thy arrowes flie,

A scorching flame burnes all the standers by.

So having conquerd Inde, was Bacchus hew,

Thee Pompous birds and him two tygres drew.

Then seeing I grace thy show in following thee,

Forbeare to hurt thy selfe in spoyling mee.

Beholde thy kinsmans Caesars prosperous bandes,

Who gardes the conquered with his conquering hands.

61

ELEGIA 2, Quodprimo Amore correptus, in triumphum duci se a Cupidine

patiatur

Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit,

His waxen wings did mount above his reach,

And, melting, Heavens conspir'd his overthrow.

Doctor Faustus

All beasts are happy,

For, when they die,

Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements;

But mine must live still to be plagu'd in hell.

Curs'd be the parents that engender'd me!

No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer

That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.

Doctor Faustus

We which were Ovids five books, now are three,

For these before the rest preferreth he:

If reading five thou plainst of tediousnesse,

Two tane away, thy labor will be lesse:

With Muse upreard I meant to sing of armes,

Choosing a subject fit for feirse alarmes:

Both verses were alike till Love (men say)

Began to smile and tooke one foote away.

Rash boy, who gave thee power to change a line?

We are the Muses prophets, none of thine.

62

What if thy Mother take Dianas bowe,

Shall Dian fanne when love begins to glowe?

In wooddie groves ist meete that Ceres Raigne,

And quiver bearing Dian till the plaine:

Who'le set the faire treste sunne in battell ray,

While Mars doth take the Aonian harpe to play?

Great are thy kingdomes, over strong and large,

Ambitious Imp, why seekst thou further charge?

Are all things thine? the Muses Tempe thine?

Then scarse can Phoebus say, this harpe is mine.

When in this workes first verse I trod aloft,

Love slackt my Muse, and made my numbers soft.

I have no mistris, nor no favorit,

Being fittest matter for a wanton wit,

Thus I complaind, but Love unlockt his quiver,

Tooke out the shaft, ordaind my hart to shiver:

And bent his sinewy bow upon his knee,

Saying, Poet heers a worke beseeming thee.

Oh woe is me, he never shootes but hits,

I burne, love in my idle bosome sits.

Let my first verse be sixe, my last five feete,

Fare well sterne warre, for blunter Poets meete.

Elegian Muse, that warblest amorous laies,

Girt my shine browe with sea banke mirtle praise.

P. Ovidii Nasonis Amorum, Liber Primus, ELEGIA 1 Quemadmodum a

Cupidine, pro bellis amores scribere coactus sit, The Complete Poems and

Translations

63

If I be cruel and grow tyrannous,

Now let them thank themselves, and rue too late.

Edward II

Further Reading

Bartels, Emily Carroll. Critical Essays on Christopher Marlowe, Prentice

Hall, 1997.

Bloom, Harold. Christopher Marlowe, Chelsea House, 2000.

Brown Kuriyama, Constance. Christopher Marlowe: A Renaissance Life,

Cornell University Press, 2002.

Cheney, Patrick. The Cambridge Companion to Christopher Marlowe,

Cambridge University Press, 2004.

Cole, Douglas. Christopher Marlowe and the Renaissance of Tragedy,

Greenwood Press, 1995.

Downie, J.A. & J.T. Parnell. Constructing Christopher Marlowe,

Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Hopkins, Lisa. Christopher Marlowe: A Literary Life, Palgrave Macmillan,

2000.

Kendall, Roy. Christopher Marlowe and Richard Baines: Journeys through

the Elizabethan Underground, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2004.

64

Maclure, Millar. Christopher Marlowe: The Collected Critical Heritage,

Routledge, 1995.

Nuttall, A.D.. The Alternative Trinity: Gnostic Heresy in Marlowe, Milton,

and Blake, Oxford University Press, 1998.

Riggs, David. The World of Christopher Marlowe, Henry Holt, 2005.

Simkin, Stevie. Marlowe: The Plays, Palgrave, 2001.

Wilson, Richard. Christopher Marlowe, Longman, 1999.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

This above all: to thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

65

(from Hamlet)

Shakespeare was doubtlessly the most prominent Elizabethan poet and

playwright, and is nowadays widely considered the greatest English writer

and one of the world’s key dramatists, apart from being called England’s

national poet and the “Bard of Avon”. Of his works, 38 plays, 154 sonnets,

two long narrative poems, and several other poems have been passed down

to us. In spite of his outstanding talent in the field of lyrical poetry,

Shakespeare’s literary fame rests mainly on his dramatic productions. His

plays have been translated into numerous languages, and are performed

more often than those of any other playwright.

Shakespeare was born and raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. At the age

of eighteen he married Anne Hathaway, and the couple had three children:

Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. Between 1585 and 1592 he worked

in London as an actor, writer, and partial owner of the playing company The

Lord Chamberlain's Men, later known as the King’s Men. During the last

part of his life, around 1613, he returned to Stratford, where he died three

years later. Little information concerning Shakespeare’s private life is

known, and many have speculated about such matters as his sexuality,

religious beliefs, and whether the works attributed to him were written by

others.

Shakespeare produced most the works we acknowledge nowadays as

being his in the time span between 1590 and 1613. His early plays were

mainly comedies and histories, genres he inherited from his predecessors,

the University Wits, and which he brought to the ultimate height of

sophistication and artistry by the end of the Renaissance era. During the

following years he wrote mainly tragedies, until about 1608,

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including Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest

dramatic productions in the English language. Towards the end of his life, he

wrote tragicomedies, alternatively called romances, and collaborated with

other playwrights. Many of his plays were published in editions of varying

quality and accuracy during his lifetime, and in 1623, two of his former

theatrical colleagues published the First Folio, a collected edition of his

dramatic works that included all but two of the plays now recognized as

Shakespeare's.

Shakespeare was extremely successful during his own lifetime,

however, his reputation did not reach the present heights until the nineteenth

century. The Romantics bowed to Shakespeare's genius, and the Victorians

worshipped him with a reverence that George Bernard Shaw ironically

referred to as “bardolatry”. In the twentieth century, his work was

reevaluated and rediscovered due to the numerous new movements in

scholarship, e.g. feminist, post-colonial, gender studies, etc. His plays are

still highly popular today and are performed and analyzed in various cultural

and political contexts worldwide.

Before the publication of the First Folio in 1623, twenty-two of the

thirty-eight plays Shakespeare authored had appeared in quarto format: The

Troublesome Reign of King John (1591), Richard II, Richard III, Romeo and

Juliet, Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2, Henry VI, Parts 2 and 3, Henry V, The

Taming of the Shrew, Love's Labours Lost, The Merchant of Venice, A

Midsummer Night's Dream, Much Ado About Nothing, Titus Andronicus,

The Merry Wives of Windsor, King Lear, Hamlet, Pericles, Othello, Troilus

and Cressida, and The Two Noble Kinsmen.  All the plays

except Othello (1622) and The Two Noble Kinsmen (1634), were published

before Shakespeare's retirement from the theatre around 1611. Scholars do

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not believe that Shakespeare was involved directly with the printing of any

of his plays, although we have to mention that two of his poems, Venus and

Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece, were probably printed under his direct

supervision. 

The question of authorship is one of the most widely debated issues

concerning Shakespeare. The plays printed originally in quarto format were

labeled fraudulent by the editors of the First Folio, Heminge and Condell,

who wrote in the preface to their collection that the admirers of

Shakespeare's works had been deceived by “diverse stolen and surreptitious

copies, maimed and deformed by the frauds of injurious imposters that

expos'd them”. They believed that most of the quartos in circulation at that

moment had been either stolen by unscrupulous printers or had been

reconstructed in a rudimentary fashion from the memory of people who had

seen the plays performed. Heminge and Condell had reasons to be concerned

about the integrity of Shakespeare’s works. The flaws in some of the quartos

are more than obvious. An eloquent example is the opening of Hamlet’s

famous soliloquy: "To be, or not to be: that is the question”. In the quarto

version of 1603 the opening is: “To be or not to be. Aye, there's the point/To

die to sleep, is that all? Aye all”. 

Around the time that Heminge and Condell started to collect

Shakespeare’s works into a single volume, the Elizabethans also began to

abandon their dislike for plays as reading material. The population was

beginning to feed on published plays with increasing voracity, and many

esteemed authors were going to great lengths to re-work their plays into a

shape more suitable for a reading audience. 

Elizabethan playwright Ben Jonson issued a folio volume of nine of

his works, called The Workes of Beniamin Jonson, in 1616. Although some

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of his contemporaries laughed at his decision to publish his plays, Jonson’s

collection shed a new aura of respectability on drama in print, and became

the inspiration for Heminge and Condell's 1623 folio of Shakespeare’s

collected plays. Heminge and Condell, Shakespeare’s former fellow actors

in the Chamberlain's Men, intended, as they themselves point out in the

Preface to the First Folio, to gather Shakespeare's works “without ambition

either of self-profit or fame, only to keep the memory of so worthy a friend

and fellow alive as was our Shakespeare”.  They included thirty-six plays in

the First Folio under the headings Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies, and,

in addition to correcting the questionable quartos by comparing them to

authoritative copies, they introduced the Elizabethan readership to

previously unpublished plays, including All's Well that Ends Well, As You

Like It, Antony and Cleopatra, The Comedy of Errors, Cymbeline,

Coriolanus, Henry VIII, Timon of Athens, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, Measure

for Measure, The Tempest, Twelfth Night, The Winter's Tale, and The Two

Gentlemen of Verona. They also made the First Folio as visually attractive

as possible by adding special touches: for instance, they selected

the Droeshout Portrait for the title page, and on the page opposite the picture

they chose ten lines by Ben Jonson, praising the lifelike exactness of the

portrait. They also took the trouble to include a list of twenty-six “names of

the principal actors in all these plays”, as well as a table of contents. The

First Folio has since become the point of reference for all Shakespeare

scholars and those interested in the analysis of his work.

Two of the most frequent questions arising from even the most

superficial reading or interpretation of Shakespeare are: what is it that

ensures his everlasting fame, and what made people from so diverse cultural,

social, historical and political backgrounds resonate to his message? Ben

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Jonson anticipated Shakespeare’s impressive literary future when he

declared: “He was not of an age, but for all time!” in the preface to the First

Folio. While most people know that Shakespeare is the most popular

dramatist and poet the Western world has ever produced, students new to his

work often wonder why this is so. In the following we will attempt to shed

light on some of the main reasons why Shakespeare has stood the test of

time.

Firstly, Shakespeare’s outstanding capability to voice an entire range

of human emotions by means of simple yet eloquent verse, is perhaps the

greatest reason for his impressive degree of popularity. Whenever one

cannot find accurate words to express how one feels about love, hate, music

or old age, Shakespeare is the one to turn to. Marchette Chute, in

the Introduction to her retelling of Shakespeare’s works, summarizes one of

the reasons for Shakespeare’s enduring literary fame:

William Shakespeare was the most remarkable storyteller that the world has ever

known. Homer told of adventure and men at war, Sophocles and Tolstoy told of

tragedies and of people in trouble. Terence and Mark Twain told comedic stories,

Dickens told melodramatic ones, Plutarch told histories and Hans Christian

Andersen told fairy tales. But Shakespeare told every kind of story – comedy,

tragedy, history, melodrama, adventure, love stories and fairy tales – and each of

them so well that they have become immortal. In all the world of storytelling he

has become the greatest name. (Stories from Shakespeare, 11)

To conclude, we might state that Shakespeare’s stories transcend

times and cultures. One proof in this respect is that many modern storytellers

continue to adapt his works to suit the modern world and readership.

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Secondly, Shakespeare gave life to a series of unique characters –

particularly his tragic heroes (Lear, Macbeth, Hamlet, Othello, etc.) – all of

which are unequalled in literature, and are comparable only to the sublime

and majestic creations of the Greek tragedians. Shakespeare’s characters

have remained popular because of their complexity. For instance, numerous

readers see themselves as Hamlet, who, forced against his better nature,

seeks murderous revenge. Shakespeare is also deeply admired by actors, and

many consider playing a Shakespearean character to be the most challenging

and the most rewarding role imaginable.

Thirdly, Shakespearean phrases have managed to penetrate everyday

language to such an extent that many of the common expressions now

thought to be clichés or commonplaces are actually Shakespeare’s creations.

Chances are the average speaker uses Shakespeare’s expressions all the time

even though he/she may not be aware that it is Shakespeare they are quoting.

Bernard Levin masterfully voices this reality in the following fragment

about Shakespeare’s impact on language:

If you cannot understand my argument, and declare "It's Greek to me", you are

quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are

quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare;

if you act more in sorrow than in anger, if your wish is father to the thought, if

your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you

have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you

have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength,

hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of

necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced

attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short

shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or

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lived in a fool's paradise - why, be that as it may, the more fool you, for it is a

foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting

Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you

think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the

game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if

you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your

teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then - to give the

devil his due - if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head)

you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me

packing, if you wish I were dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a

laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a

blinking idiot, then - by Jove! O Lord! Tut, tut! for goodness' sake! what the

dickens! but me no buts - it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare.

(The Story of English, 145)

Memorable quotes from Shakespeare’s works:

The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.

As You Like It

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

All's Well That Ends Well

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

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Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and

others have greatness thrust upon them.

Twelfth Night

Doubt thou the stars are fire;

Doubt that the sun doth move;

Doubt truth to be a liar;

But never doubt I love.

Hamlet

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.

Julius Caesar

If music be the food of love, play on,

Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,

The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Twelfth Night

There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

Hamlet

You speak an infinite deal of nothing.

The Merchant of Venice

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

The Tempest

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My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will

break.

The Taming of the Shrew

Cowards die many times before their deaths; 

The valiant never taste of death but once. 

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, 

It seems to me most strange that men should fear; 

Seeing that death, a necessary end, 

Will come when it will come.

Julius Caesar

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.

Romeo and Juliet

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

The more I have, for both are infinite.

Romeo and Juliet

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

A Midsummer Night's Dream

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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

Macbeth

All that glisters is not gold;

Often have you heard that told:

Many a man his life hath sold

But my outside to behold:

Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

The Merchant of Venice

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation

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Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

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Be all my sins remember'd!

Hamlet

Further Reading

Ackroyd, Peter. Shakespeare: The Biography, London: Vintage, 2006.

Adams, Joseph Quincy. A Life of William Shakespeare, Boston: Houghton

Mifflin, 1923.

Barber, C. L. Shakespearian Comedy in the Comedy of Errors, England:

College English, 1964.

Bate, Jonathan. The Soul of the Age, London: Penguin, 2008.

Bentley, G. E. Shakespeare: A Biographical Handbook, New Haven: Yale

University Press, 1961.

Berry, Ralph. Changing Styles in Shakespeare, London: Routledge, 2005.

Bevington, David. Shakespeare, Oxford: Blackwell, 2002.

Bloom, Harold. Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, New York:

Riverhead Books, 1999.

Boas, F. S. Shakespeare and His Predecessors, New York: Charles

Scribner's Sons, 1896.

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Bowers, Fredson. On Editing Shakespeare and the Elizabethan Dramatists,

Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1955.

Boyce, Charles. Dictionary of Shakespeare, Ware, Herts, UK: Wordsworth,

1996.

Bradley, A. C. Shakespearean Tragedy: Lectures on Hamlet, Othello, King

Lear and Macbeth, London: Penguin, 1991.

Honigmann, E. A. J. Shakespeare: The Lost Years (revised ed.), Manchester:

Manchester University Press, 1999.

Hunter, Robert E. Shakespeare and Stratford-upon-Avon: A ‘Chronicle of

the Time’, Whittaker, reissued by Cambridge University Press, 2009, 1864.

Jackson, MacDonald P. Defining Shakespeare: Pericles as Test Case,

Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003.

Kastan, David Scott. Shakespeare After Theory, London: Routledge, 1999.

78

NOW READ ON

from Endymion, the Man in the Moone

by John Lyly

79

ACT THE FIRST

SCENE I

[Enter ENDYMION and EUMENIDES]

Endymion: I find, Eumenides, in all things both variety to content, and satiety to glut, saving only in my affections, which are so staid, and withal so stately, that I can neither satisfy my heart with love, nor mine eyes with wonder. My thoughts, Eumenides, are stitched to the stars, which being as high as I can see, thou mayest imagine how much higher they are than one can reach.

Eumenides: If you be enamoured of anything above the moon, your thoughts are ridiculous, for that things immortal are not subject to affections ; if allured or enchanted with these transitory things under the moon, you show yourself senseless, to attribute such lofty titles to such love-trifles.

Endymion: My love is placed neither under the moon nor above.

Eumenides: I hope you be not sotted upon the Man in the Moon.

Endymion: Sotted, Besotted, bewitched with, No; but settled either to die or possess the moon herself.

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Eumenides: Is Endymion mad, or do I mistake? Do you love the moon, Endymion? End: Eumenides, the moon.

Eumenides: There was never any so peevish to imagine the moon either capable of affection or shape of a mistress ; for as impossible it is to make love fit a to her humor, which no man knoweth, as a coat to her form, which con- tinueth not in one bigness whilst she is measuring. Cease off, Endymion, to feed so much upon fancies. That melancholy blood must be purged which draweth you to a dotage no less miserable than monstrous.

Endymion: My thoughts have no veins, and yet unless they be let blood, I shall perish.

Eumenides: But they have vanities, which being reformed, you may be restored.

Endymion: O, fair Cynthia, why do others term thee inconstant whom I have ever found immovable? Injurious time, corrupt manners, unkind men, who, finding a constancy not to be matched in my sweet mistress, have christened her with the name of wavering, waxing, and waning! Is she inconstant that keepeth a settled course; which, since her first creation, altereth not one minute in her moving? There is nothing thought more admirable or commendable in the sea than the ebbing and flowing; and shall the moon, from whom the sea taketh this virtue, be accounted fickle for increasing and decreasing? Flowers in their buds are nothing worth till they be blown, nor are blossoms accounted till they be

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ripe fruit ; and shall we then say they be change- able for that they grow from seeds to leaves, from leaves to buds, from buds to their perfection ? Then, why be not twigs that become trees, children that become men, and mornings that grow to evenings, termed wavering, for that they continue not at one stay? Ay, but Cynthia, beingin her fulness, decayeth, as not delighting in her greatest beauty, or withering when she should be most honored. When malice cannot object anything, folly will, making that a vice which is the greatest virtue. What thing (my mistress excepted), being in the pride of her beauty and latter minute of her age, that waxeth young again? Tell me, Eumenides what is he that having a mistress of ripe years and infinite virtues, great honors and unspeakable beauty, but would wish that she might grow tender again, getting youth by years, and never-decaying beauty by time; whose fair face neither the summer's blaze can scorch, nor win- ter's blast chap, nor the numbering of years breed altering of colors? Such is my sweet Cynthia, whom time cannot touch because she is divine, nor will offend because she is delicate. O Cynthia, if thou shouldst always continue at So thy fulness, both gods and men would conspire to ravish thee. But thou, to abate the pride of our affections, dost detract from thy perfections, thinking it sufficient if once in a month we en- joy a glimpse of thy majesty; and then, to increase our griefs, thou dost decrease thy gleams, coming out of thy royal robes, wherewith thou dazzlest our eyes, down into thy swathe clouts, beguiling our eyes; and then…

Eumenides:Stay there, Endymion; thou that comittest idolatry, wilt straight blaspheme, if thou be suffered. Sleep would do thee more good

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than speech: the moon heareth thee not, or if she do, regardeth thee not.

Endymion:Vain Eumenides, whose thoughts never grow higher than the crown of thy head! Why troublest thou me, having neither head to conceive the cause of my love nor heart to receive the impressions ? Follow thou thine own fortunes, which creep on the earth, and suffer me too to fly to mine, whose fall, though it be desperate, yet shall it come by daring. Farewell.

[Exit]

Eumenides:Without doubt Endymion is bewitched; otherwise in a man of such rare virtues there could not harbor a mind of such extreme madness. I will follow him, lest in this fancy of the moon he deprive himself of the sight of the sun.

[Exit]

SCENE II

Enter TELLUS and FLOSCULA

Tellus: Treacherous and most perjured Endymion, is Cynthia the sweetness of thy life and the bitterness of my death? What revenge may be devised so full of shame as my thoughts are no replenished with malice? Tell me, Floscula, if falseness in love can possibly be punished with extremity of hate? As long as sword, fire, or poison may be hired, no traitor to my love shall live unrevenged. Were thy oaths without number, thy kisses without measure, thy sighs without end,

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forged to deceive a poor credulous virgin whose simplicity had been worth thy favor and better fortune? If the gods sit unequal beholders of injuries, or laughers at lovers' deceits, then let mischief be as well forgiven in women as perjury winked at in men.

Floscula: Madam, if you would compare the state of Cynthia with your own, and the height of Endymion's thoughts with the meanness of your fortune, you would rather yield than contend, [there] being between you and her no comparison; and rather wonder than rage at the greatness of his mind, being affected with a thing more than mortal.

Tellus:No comparison, Floscula? And why so? Is not my beauty divine, whose body is decked with fair flowers, and veins are vines, yielding sweet liquor to the dullest spirits; whose ears are corn, to bring strength; and whose hairs are grass, to bring abundance? Doth not frankincense and myrrh breathe out of my nostrils, and all the sacrifice of the gods breed in my bowels? Infinite are my creatures, without which neither thou, nor Endymion, nor any, could love or live.

Floscula:But know you not, fair lady, that Cynthia governeth all things? Your grapes would be but dry husks, your corn but chaff, and all your virtues vain, were it not Cynthia that preserveth the one in the bud and nourisheth the other in the blade, and by her influence both comforteth all things, and by her authority commandeth all creatures: suffer, then, Endymion to follow his affections, though to obtain her be

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impossible, and let him flatter himself in his own imaginations, because they are immortal.

Tellus: Loath I am, Endymion, thou shouldst die, because I love thee well ; and that thou shouldst live, it grieveth me, because thou lovest Cynthia too well. In these extremities, what shall I do? Floscula, no more words; I am resolved. He shall neither live nor die.

Floscula: A strange practice, if it be possible.

Tellus:Yes, I will entangle him in such a sweet net that he shall neither find the means to come out, nor desire it. All allurements of pleasure will I cast before his eyes, insomuch that he shall slake that love which he now voweth to Cynthia, and burn in mine, of which he seemeth careless. In this languishing, between my amorous devices and his own loose desires, there shall such dissolute thoughts take root in his head, and over his heart grow so thick a skin, that neither hope of preferment, nor fear of punishment, nor counsel of the wisest, nor company of the worthiest, shall alter his humor, nor make him once to think of his honor.

Floscula:A revenge incredible, and if it may be, unnatural.

Tellus:He shall know the malice of a woman to have neither mean nor end ; and of a woman deluded in love to have neither rule nor reason. I can do it; I must; I will! All his virtues

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will I shadow with vices; his person (ah, sweet person!) shall he deck with such rich robes as he shall forget it is his own person; his sharp wit (ah, wit too sharp that hath cut off all my joys!) shall he use in flattering of my face and devising sonnets in my favor. The prime of his youth and pride of his time shall be spent in melancholy passions, careless behavior, untamed thoughts, and unbridled affections.

Floscula:When this is done, what then? Shall it continue till his death, or shall he dote forever in this delight?

Tellus:Ah, Floscula, thou rendest my heart in sunder in putting me in remembrance of the end.

Floscula:Why, if this be not the end, all the rest is to no end.

Tellus:Yet suffer me to imitate Juno, who would turn Jupiter's lovers to beasts on the earth, though she knew afterwards they should be stars in heaven.

Floscula:Affection that is bred by enchantment is like a flower that is wrought in silk, in color and form most like, but nothing at all in substance or savor.

Tellus:It shall suffice me if the world talk that I am favored of Endymion.

Floscula:

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Well, use your own will; but you shall find that love gotten with witchcraft is as un- pleasant as fish taken with medicines unwholesome.

Tellus:Floscula, they that be so poor that they have neither net nor hook will rather poison dough than pine with hunger; and she that is so oppressed with love that she is neither able with beauty nor wit to obtain her friend, will rather use unlawful means than try intolerable pains. I will do it.

[Exit]

Floscula:Then about it. Poor Endymion, what traps are laid for thee because thou honorest one that all the world wondereth at! And what plots are cast to make thee unfortunate that studiest of all men to be the faithfulest!

[Exit]

SCENE III

Enter DARES and SAMIAS

Dares:Now our masters are in love up to the ears, what have we to do but to be in knavery up to the crowns?

Samias:Oh, that we had Sir Tophas, that brave squire, in the midst of our mirth, et ecce autem, "Will you see the Devil".

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[Enter at the opposite side of the stage Sir TOPHAS and EPITON]

Tophas: Epiton.

Epiton:Here, sir.

Tophas:I brook not this idle humor of love; it tickleth not my liver, from whence the lovemongers in former ages seemed to infer it should proceed.

Epiton:Love, sir, may lie in your lungs, and I think it doth, and that is the cause you blow and are so pursy.

Tophas: Tush, boy, I think it but some device of the poet to get money.

Epiton:A poet; what's that?

Tophas:Dost thou not know what a poet is?

Epiton:No.

Tophas:Why, fool, a poet is as much as one should say a poet. [Discovering DARES and SAMIAS] But soft, yonder be two wrens; shall

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I shoot at them?

Epiton:They are two lads. Tophas:Larks or wrens, I will kill them.

Epiton:Larks! Are you blind? They are two little boys.

Tophas:Birds or boys, they are both but a pittance for my breakfast; therefore have at them, for their brains must as it were embroider my bolts.

[SAMIAS and DARES come forward]

Samias:Stay your courage, valiant knight, for your wisdom is so weary that it stayeth itself.

Dares:Why, Sir Tophas, have you forgotten your old friends?

Tophas:Friends? Nego argumentum.

Samias:And why not friends?

Tophas:Because amicitia (as in old annals we find) is inter pares. Now, my pretty companions, you shall see how unequal you be to me; 'but I will not cut you quite off, you shall be my half-friends for reaching to my middle; so far as from the ground to the waist I will be your

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friend.

Dares:Learnedly. But what shall become of the rest of your body, from the waist to the crown?

Tophas:My children, quod supra vos nihil ad vos; you must think the rest immortal, because you cannot reach it.

Epiton: Nay, I tell ye my master is more than a man.

Dares:And thou less than a mouse.

Tophas:But what be you two?

Samias:I am Samias, page to Endymion.

Dares:And I Dares, page to Eumenides.

Tophas:Of what occupation are your masters?

Dares:Occupation, you clown! Why, they are honorable and warriors.

Tophas:Then are they my prentices.

Dares:Thine! And why so?

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Tophas:I was the first that ever devised war, and therefore by Mars himself had given me for my arms a whole armory; and thus I go, as you see, clothed with artillery. It is not silks, milksops, nor tissues, nor the fine wool of Ceres, but iron, steel, swords, flame, shot, terror, clamor, blood, and ruin, that rock asleep my thoughts, which never had any other cradle but cruelty. Let me see, do you not bleed?

Dares:Why so?

Tophas:Commonly my words wound.

Samias:What then do your blows?

Tophas:Not only wound, but also confound.

Samias:How darest thou come so near thy master, Epi? Sir Tophas, spare us.

Tophas:You shall live: you, Samias, because you are little; you, Dares, because you are no bigger; and both of you, because you are but two; for commonly I kill by the dozen, and have for every particular adversary a peculiar weapon.

Samias:May we know the use, for our better skill in war?

Tophas:

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You shall. Here is a bird-bolt for the ugly beast the blackbird.

Dares:A cruel sight.

Tophas:Here is the musket for the untamed or, as the vulgar sort term it, the wild mallard.

Samias:O desperate attempt!

Epiton:Nay, my master will match them.

Dares: Ay, if he catch them.

Tophas:Here is a spear and shield, and both necessary, the one to conquer, the other to subdue or overcome the terrible trout, which although he be under the water, yet tying a string to the top of my spear and an engine of iron to the end of my line, I overthrow him, and then herein I put him.

Samias:O wonderful war! [Aside] Dares, didst thou ever hear such a dolt?

Dares:[Aside] All the better; we shall have good sport hereafter, if we can get leisure.

Samias:[Aside] Leisure! I will rather lose my master's service than his company! Look how he struts. [To Sir TOPHAS] But what is this?

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Call you it your sword?

Tophas: No, it is my simitar; which I, by construction often studying to be compendious, call my smiter.

Dares:What, are you also learned, sir?

Tophas:Learned? I am all Mars and Ars. Samias:Nay, you are all mass and ass.

Tophas:Mock you me? You shall both suffer, yet with such weapons as you shall make choice of the weapon wherewith you shall perish. Am I all a mass or lump; is there no proportion in me? Am I all ass; is there no wit in me? Epi, prepare them to the slaughter.

Samias:I pray, sir, hear us speak! We call you mass, which your learning doth well understand is all man, for mas marts is a man. Then as (as you know) is a weight, and we for your virtues account you a weight.

Tophas:The Latin hath saved your lives, the which a world of silver could not have ransomed. I understand you, and pardon you.

Dares:Well, Sir Tophas, we bid you farewell, and at our next meeting we will be ready to do you service.

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Tophas:Samias, I thank you: Dares, I thank you: but especially I thank you both.

Samias:Wisely. [Aside] Come, next time we'll have some pretty gentlewomen with us to walk, for without doubt with them he will be very dainty.

Dares:Come, let us see what our masters do; it is high time.

[Exeunt SAMIAS and DARES]

Tophas:Now will I march into the field, where, if I cannot encounter with my foul enemies, I will withdraw myself to the river, and there fortify for fish, for there resteth no minute free from fight.

[Exeunt Sir TOPHAS and EPITON]

SCENE IV

Enter at one side FLOSCULA and TELLUS, at the other DIPSAS

Tellus:Behold, Floscula, we have met with the woman by chance that we sought for by travel. I will break my mind to her without ceremony or circumstance, lest we lose that time in advice that should be spent in execution.

Floscula:

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Use your discretion; I will in this case neither give counsel nor consent, for there cannot be a thing more monstrous than to force affection by sorcery, neither do I imagine anything more impossible.

Tellus:Tush, Floscula, in obtaining of love, what impossibilities will I not try? And for the winning of Endymion, what impieties will I not practise ? [Crossing to DIPSAS] Dipsas, whom as many honor for age as wonder at for cunning, listen in few words to my tale, and answer in one word to the purpose, for that neither my burning desire can afford long speech, nor the short time I have to stay many delays. Is it possible by herbs, stones, spells, incantation, enchantment, exorcisms, fire, metals, planets, or any practice, to plant affection where it is not, and to supplant it where it is?

Dipsas:Fair lady, you may imagine that these hoary hairs are not void of experience, nor the great name that goeth of my cunning to be without cause. I can darken the sun by my skill and remove the moon out of her course; I can restore youth to the aged and make hills without bottoms; there is nothing that I can- not do but that only which you would have me do: and therein I differ from the gods, that I am not able to rule hearts; for were it in my power to place affection by appointment, I would make such evil appetites, such inordinate lusts, such cursed desires, as all the world should be filled both with superstitious heats and extreme love.

Tellus:Unhappy Tellus, whose desires are so

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desperate that they are neither to be conceived of any creature, nor to be cured by any art! Dipsas:This I can: breed slackness in love, though never root it out. What is he whom you love, and what she that he honoreth?

Tellus:Endymion, sweet Endymion is he that hath my heart ; and Cynthia, too, too fair Cynthia, the miracle of nature, of time, of fortune, is the lady that he delights in, and dotes on every day, and dies for ten thousand times a day.

Dipsas:Would you have his love either by absence or sickness aslaked? Would you that Cynthia should mistrust him, or be jealous ofhim without color?

Tellus:It is the only thing I crave, that, seeing my love to Endymion, unspotted, cannot be accepted, his truth to Cynthia, though it be unspeakable, may be suspected.

Dipsas: I will undertake it, and overtake him, that a all his love shall be doubted of, and therefore become desperate: but this will wear outwith time that treadeth all things down but truth.

Tellus:Let us go.

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Dipsas: I follow.

[Exeunt TELLUS and FLOSCULA, DIPSAS following them]

from The Tragical Historie of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus

by Christopher Marlowe

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[Enter Chorus]

Not marching in the fields of Thrasimene,Where Mars did mate the warlike Carthagens,Nor sporting in the dalliance of loveIn courts of kings, where state is overturned,Nor in the pomp of proud audacious deeds,Intends our Muse to vaunt his heavenly verse.Only this, gentles: we must now performThe form of Faustus' fortunes, good or bad.And now to patient judgments we appeal,And speak for Faustus in his infancy.Now is he born, of parents base of stock,In Germany, within a town called Rhodes.At riper years to Wittenberg he went,Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up.So much he profits in divinity,That shortly he was graced with Doctor's name,Excelling all, and sweetly can disputeIn th'heavenly matters of theology.Till swoll'n with cunning, of a self conceit,His waxen wings did mount above his reachAnd melting, heavens conspired his overthrow,For falling to a devilish exercise,And glutted now with learning's golden gifts,He surfeits upon cursed necromancy.Nothing so sweet as magic is to him;Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss,And this the man that in his study sits.

ACT1

SCENE 1

Faustus in his study

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Faustus:Settle thy studies Faustus, and beginto sound the depth of that thou wilt profess.Having commenced, be a divine in show,Yet level at the end of every art,And live and die in Aristotle's works.Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravished me.Bene disserere est finis logices.Is to dispute well logic's chiefest end?Affords this art no greater miracle?Then read no more; thou hast attained that end.A greater subject fitteth Faustus' wit.Bid economy farewell, and Galen come.Be a physician, Faustus; heap up gold,And be eternized for some wondrous cure.Summum bonum, medicinae sanitas:The end of physic is our body's health:Why, Faustus, hast thou not attained that end?Are not thy bills hung up as monuments,Whereby whole cities have escaped the plagueAnd thousand desperate maladies been cured?Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man.Could'st thou make men to live eternally,Or being dead, raise them to life again,Then this profession were to be esteemed.Physic farewell. Where is Justinian?Si una eademque res legatur duobus,AIter rem, alter valorem rei, etcc.A petty case of paltry legacies!Exhaereditare filium non potest pater, nisi--Such is the subject of the institute,And universal body of the law.This study fits a mercenary drudge,Who aims at nothing but external trash,Too servile aad illiberal for me.When all is done, divinity is best;Jerome's Bible, Faustus, view it well.Stipendium peccati, mors est." Ha! Stipendium, &c:The reward of sin is death? That's hard.

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Si peccasse, negamus, fallimur, et nulla est in nobis veritas.If we say that we have no sinWe deceive ourselves, and there is no truth in us.Why then belike we must sin,And so consequently die.Ay, we must die, an everlasting death.What doctrine call you this: Che sera, sera,What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu.These metaphysics of magicians,And necromantic books are heavenly;Lines, circles, letters, characters.Ay, these are those that Faustus most desires.O what a world of profit and delight,Of power, of honour, and omnipotence,Is promised to the studious artisan?All things that move between the quiet polesShall be at my command. Emperors and Kings,Are but obeyed in their several provinces,But his dominion that exceeds in this,Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man:A sound magician is a demi-god.Here, tire my brains to get a Deity. [Enter Wagner]Wagner, commend me to my dearest friends,The German Valdes and Cornelius.Request them earnestly to visit me.

Wagner:I will sir.

[Exit]

Faustus:Their conference will be a greater help to me,Then all my labours, plod I ne'er so fast.[Enter the Good Angel and Evil Angel]

Good Angel:O Faustus, lay that damned book aside,And gaze not on it least it tempt thy soul,

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And heap God's heavy wrath upon thy head.Read, read the scriptures: that is blasphemy.

Evil Angel:Go forward, Faustus, in that famous artWherein all nature's treasure is contained.Be thou on earth as Jove is in the sky,Lord and Commander of these elements.

[Exeunt Angels]

Faustus:How am I glutted with conceipt of this!Shall I make spirits fetch me what I please,Resolve me of all ambiguities,Perform what desperate enterprise I will?I'll have them fly to India for gold,Ransack the ocean for orient pearl,And search all corners of the new-found worldFor pleasant fruits, and princely delicates.I'll have them read me strange philosophy,And tell the secrets of all foreign Kings.I'll have them wall all Germany with brass,And make swift Rhine, circle faire Wittenberg.I'll have them fill the public schools with silk,Wherewith the students shall be bravely clad.I'll levy soldiers with the coin they bring,And chase the Prince of Parma from our land,And reign sole king of all the provinces.Yea, stranger engines for the brunt of war,Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp's bridge,I'll make my servile spirits to invent.Come, German Valdes and Cornelius,And make me blest with your sage conference.

[Enter Valdes and Cornelius]

Valdes, sweet Valdes and Cornelius!Know that your words have won me at the last.To practice magic and concealed arts.

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Philosophy is odious and obscure.Both law and physic are for petty wits.'Tis magic, magic, that hath ravished me.Then gentle friends aid me in this attempt,And I, that have with subtle syllogismsGravelled the pastors of the German Church,And made the flowering pride of WittenbergSworn to my problems, as th'infernal spiritsOn sweet Musaes when he came to hell,Will be as cunning as Agrippa was,Whose shadow made all Europe honour him.

Valdes:Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our experience,Shall make all nations to canonize us,As Indian moors, obey their Spanish lords.So shall the spirits of every element,Be always serviceable to us three.Like lions shall they guard us when we please,Like Almaine rutters with their horsemen's staves,Or Lapland giants trotting by our sides.Sometimes like women or unwedded maids,Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows,Than has the white breasts of the queen of love.From Venice shall they drag huge argosies,And from America the golden fleece,That yearly stuffed old Phillip's treasury,If learned Faustus will be resolute.

Faustus:Valdes, as resolute am I in this,As thou to live, therefore object it not.

Cornelius:The miracles that magic will perform,Will make thee vow to study nothing else.He that is grounded in Astrology,Enriched with tongues, well seen in minerals,Hath all the principles magic doth require.Then doubt not, Faustus, but to be renowned,

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And more frequented for this mystery,Then heretofore the Delphian oracle.The spirits tell me they can dry the sea,And fetch the treasure of all foreign wrackes,Yea, all the wealth that our fore-fathers hid,Within the messy entrails of the earth;Then tell me, Faustus, what shall we three want?

Faustus:Nothing Cornelius. O this cheers my soul.Come, show me some demonstrations magical,That I may conjure in some bushy grove,And have these joys in full possession.

Valdes:Then hast thee to some solitary grove,And bear wise Bacon's, and Albanus' works,The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament;And whatsoever else is requisite,We will inform thee ere our conference cease.

Cornelius:Valdes, first let him know the words of art,And then all other ceremonies learned,Faustus may try his cunning by himself.

Valdes:First I'll instruct thee in the rudiments,And then wilt thou be perfecter then I.

Faustus:Then come and dine with me, and after meatWe'll canvass every quiddity thereof;For ere I sleep, I'll try what I can do:This night I'll conjure though I die therefore.

[Exeunt]

ACT 1

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SCENE 2

[Enter two Scholars]

1. Scholar:I wonder what's become of Faustus that was wontTo make our schools ring, with sic probo.

[Enter Wagner]

2. Scholar:That shall we presently know, here comes his boy.

1. Scholar:How now, sirrah! Where's thy master?

Wagner:God in heaven knows.

2. Scholar:Why dost not thou know then?

Wagner:Yes, I know, but that follows not.

2. Scholar:Go to, sirrah; leave your jesting, and tell us where he is.

Wagner:That follows not by force of argument, whichyou, being licentiates, should stand upon. Therefore, acknowledge your error, and be attentive.

2. Scholar:Then you will not tell us?

Wagner:You are deceived, for I will tell you. Yet if youwere not dunces, you would never ask me such a question.For is he not Corpus naturale? And is not that mobile? Then

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wherefore should you ask me such a question? But that Iam by nature phlegmatic, slow to wrath, and prone to lechery(to love I would say) it were not for you to come within for-ty foot of the place of execution, although I do not doubt butto see you both hanged the next sessions. Thus, having tri-umphed over you, I will set my countenance like a precision,and begin to speak thus: truly my dear brethren, my master.is within at dinner, with Valdes and Cornelius, as this wine,if it could speak, would inform your worships. And sothe Lord bless you, preserve you, and keep you, my dearbrethren.

[Exit]

1. Scholar:O Faustus, then I fear it which I have long suspected:That thou art fallen into that damned artFor which they two are infamous through the world.

2. Scholar:Were he a stranger, not allayed to me,The danger of his soul would make me mourn.But come, let us go, and inform the Rector.It may be his grave counsel may reclaim him.

1. Scholar:I fear me, nothing will reclaim him now.

2. Scholar:Yet let us see what we can do.

[Exeunt]

ACT 1

SCENE 3

[Thunder. Enter Lucifer and Four devils, Faustus to them

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with this speech]

Faustus:Now that the gloomy shadow of the night,Longing to view Orion's drizzling look,Leaps from th'Antarctic world unto the sky,And dims the welkin, with her pitchy breathe,Faustus, begin thine incantations,And try if devils will obey thy hest,Seeing thou hast prayed and sacrificed to them.Within this circle is Jehovah's name,Forward, and backward, anagrammatised:Th'abbreviated names of holy saints,Figures of every adjunct to the heavens,And characters of signs, and evening stars,By which the spirits are enforced to rise.Then fear not, Faustus, to be resoluteAnd try the utmost magic can perform.Thunder. Sint mihi Dei Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Jehovae! Ignei aerii, aquatani spiritus, salvete! Orientisprinceps Beelzebub, inferni ardentis monarcha, et Demigorgon, propitiamus vos, ut appareat, et surgat MephistophilisDragon, quod tumeraris; per Jehovam, gehennam, et consecratam aquam, quam nunc spargo; signumque; crucis quodnunc facio, et per vota nostra, ipse nunc surgat nobis dicatusMephistophilis!

[Enter a Devil]

I charge thee to return, and change thy shape.Thou art too ugly to attend on me.Go and return an old Franciscan friar;That holy shape becomes a devil best.

[Exit Devil]

I see there's virtue in my heavenly words.

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Who would not be proficient in this art?How pliant is this Mephistophilis?Full of obedience and humility,Such is the force of magic, and my spells.

[Enter Mephistophilis]

Mephistophilis:Now, Faustus, what would'st thou have me do?

Faustus:I charge thee wait upon me whil'st I liveTo do what ever Faustus shall command.Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere,Or the ocean to overwhelm the world.

Mephistophilis:I am a servant to great Lucifer,And may not follow thee without his leave.No more than he commands, must we perform.

Faustus:Did not he charge thee to appear to me?

Mephistophilis:No, I came now hither of mine owe accord.

Faustus:Did not my conjuring raise thee? Speak.

Mephistophilis:That was the cause, but yet per accidents;For when we hear one rack the name of God,Abjure the scriptures, and his Savior Christ,We fly in hope to get his glorious soul;Nor will we come, unless he use such means,Whereby he is in danger to be damned.Therefore the shortest cut for conjuringIs stoutly to abjure all godlinessAnd pray devoutly to the Prince of Hell.

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Faustus:So Faustus hath already done, and holds this principle:There is no chief but only Beelzebub,To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.This word Damnation, terrifies not me,For I confound hell in Elysium;My ghost be with the old philosophers.But leaving these vain trifles of men's souls,Tell me, what is that Lucifer, thy Lord?

Mephistophilis:Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.

Faustus:Was not that Lucifer an angel once?

Mephistophilis:Yes, Faustus, and most dearly loved of God.

Faustus:How comes it then that he is Prince of Devils?

Mephistophilis:O, by aspiring pride and insolence,For which God threw him from the face of heaven.

Faustus:And what are you that live with Lucifer?

Mephistophilis:Unhappy spirits that live with Lucifer,Conspired against our God with Lucifer,And are for ever damned with Lucifer.

Faustus:Where are you damned?

Mephistophilis:In hell.

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Faustus:How comes it then that thou art out of hell?

Mephistophilis:Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.Think'st thou that I that saw the face of God,And tasted the eternal joys of heavenAm not tormented with ten thousand hells,In being deprived of everlasting bliss?O, Faustus, leave these frivolous demands,Which strike a terror to my fainting soul.

Faustus:What, is great Mephistophilis so passionateFor being deprived of the joys of heaven?Learn thou of Faustus' manly fortitude,And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer,Seeing Faustus hath incurred eternal death,By desperate thoughts against Jove's deity.Say he surrenders up to him his soul,So he will spare him four and twenty years,Letting him live in all voluptuousness,Having thee ever to attend on me,To give me whatsoever I shall ask,To tell me whatsoever I demand,To slay mine enemies, and to aid my friends,And always be obedient to my will.Go, and return to mighty Lucifer,And meet me in my study, at midnight,And then resolve me of thy master's mind.

Mephistophilis:I will, Faustus.

[Exit]

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Faustus:Had I as many souls, as there be stars,I'd give them all for Mephistophilis.By him, I'll be great Emperor of the world,And make a bridge, through the moving air,To pass the ocean. With a band of menI'll join the hills that bind the Afric shore,And make that country, continent to Spain,And both contributory to my crown.The Emperor shall not live, but by my leave,Nor any Potentate of Germany.Now that I have obtained what I desiredI'll live in speculation of this artTill Mephistophilis return again.

[Exit]

ACT 1

SCENE 4

[Enter Wagner and the Clown]

Wagner:Come hither sirrah boy.

Clown:Boy? O disgrace to my person. Zounds! Boy in yourface! You have seen many boys with beards I am sure.

Wagner:Sirrah, hast thou no comings in?

Clown:Yes, and goings out too, you may see sir.

Wagner:Alas poor slave. See how poverty jests in his naked-ness. I know the villain's out of service, and so hungry,that I know he would give his soul to the devil,

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for a shoulder of mutton, though it were blood raw.

Clown:Not so neither; I had need to have it well roasted,and good sauce to it, if I pay so dear, I can tell you.

Wagner:Sirrah, wilt thou be my man and wait on me? AndI will make thee go, like Qui mihi discipulus.

Clown:What, in verse?

Wagner:No, slave, in beaten silk, and stavesacre.

Clown:Stavesacre? That's good to kill vermin. Then belike if I serve you, I shall be lousy.

Wagner:Why, so thou shalt be, whether thou dost it or no.For, sirrah, if thou dost not presently bind thyself to me for forseven years, I'll turn all the lice about thee into familiars,and make them tear thee in pieces.

Clown:Nay, sir, you may save yourself a labour, for, they theyare as familiar with me, as if they paid for their meat anddrink, I can tell you.

Wagner:Well, sirrah, leave your jesting, and take these guilders.

Clown:Yes, marry, sir, and I thank you too.

Wagner:So, now thou art to be at an hour's warning,

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whensoever, and wheresoever the devil shall fetch thee.

Clown:Here, take your guilders; I'll none of 'em.

Wagner:Not I. Thou art pressed. Prepare thyself, for, I will willpresently raise up two devils to carry thee away: Banio,Belcher!

Clown:Belcher? and Belcher come here. I'll belch him. I amnot afraid of a devil.

[Enter two Devils.]

Wagner:How now, sir, will you serve me now?

Clown:Ay, good Wagner, take away the devil then.

Wagner:Spirits, away! Now, sirrah, follow me.

Clown:I will sir, but hark you master, you teachme this conjuring occupation?

Wagner:Ay, sirrah, I'll teach thee to turn thyself to a dog,or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat, or anything.

Clown:A dog, or a cat, or a mouse, or a rat? O, braveWagner.

Wagner:

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Villain, call me master Wagner, and see that youwalk attentively, and let your right eye be always Diametrically fixed upon my left heel, that thou may'st, Quasi vestigias nostras insistere.

Clown:Well, sir, I warrant you.

[Exeunt]

from A Midsummer Night’s Dream

by William Shakespeare

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ACT I

SCENE I

Athens. The palace of THESEUS

[Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, and Attendants]

THESEUS:Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hourDraws on apace; four happy days bring inAnother moon: but, O, methinks, how slowThis old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,Like to a step-dame or a dowagerLong withering out a young man revenue.

HIPPOLYTA:Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;Four nights will quickly dream away the time;And then the moon, like to a silver bowNew-bent in heaven, shall behold the nightOf our solemnities.

THESEUS:Go, Philostrate,Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments;Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;Turn melancholy forth to funerals;The pale companion is not for our pomp.

[Exit PHILOSTRATE]

Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword,And won thy love, doing thee injuries;But I will wed thee in another key,With pomp, with triumph and with revelling.

[Enter EGEUS, HERMIA, LYSANDER, and DEMETRIUS]

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EGEUS:Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!

THESEUS:Thanks, good Egeus: what's the news with thee?

EGEUS:Full of vexation come I, with complaintAgainst my child, my daughter Hermia.Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord,This man hath my consent to marry her.Stand forth, Lysander: and my gracious duke,This man hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child;Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,And interchanged love-tokens with my child:Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,With feigning voice verses of feigning love,And stolen the impression of her fantasyWith bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengersOf strong prevailment in unharden'd youth:With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart,Turn'd her obedience, which is due to me,To stubborn harshness: and, my gracious duke,Be it so she; will not here before your graceConsent to marry with Demetrius,I beg the ancient privilege of Athens,As she is mine, I may dispose of her:Which shall be either to this gentlemanOr to her death, according to our lawImmediately provided in that case.

THESEUS:What say you, Hermia? be advised fair maid:To you your father should be as a god;One that composed your beauties, yea, and oneTo whom you are but as a form in waxBy him imprinted and within his power

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To leave the figure or disfigure it.Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

HERMIA:So is Lysander.

THESEUS:In himself he is;But in this kind, wanting your father's voice,The other must be held the worthier.

HERMIA:I would my father look'd but with my eyes.

THESEUS:Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

HERMIA:I do entreat your grace to pardon me.I know not by what power I am made bold,Nor how it may concern my modesty,In such a presence here to plead my thoughts;But I beseech your grace that I may knowThe worst that may befall me in this case,If I refuse to wed Demetrius.

THESEUS:Either to die the death or to abjureFor ever the society of men.Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires;Know of your youth, examine well your blood,Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice,You can endure the livery of a nun,For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd,To live a barren sister all your life,Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood,To undergo such maiden pilgrimage;But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd,

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Than that which withering on the virgin thornGrows, lives and dies in single blessedness.

HERMIA:So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,Ere I will my virgin patent upUnto his lordship, whose unwished yokeMy soul consents not to give sovereignty.

THESEUS:Take time to pause; and, by the next new moon--The sealing-day betwixt my love and me,For everlasting bond of fellowship--Upon that day either prepare to dieFor disobedience to your father's will,Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would;Or on Diana's altar to protestFor aye austerity and single life.

DEMETRIUS:Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yieldThy crazed title to my certain right.

LYSANDER:You have her father's love, Demetrius;Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.

EGEUS:Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love,And what is mine my love shall render him.And she is mine, and all my right of herI do estate unto Demetrius.

LYSANDER:I am, my lord, as well derived as he,As well possess'd; my love is more than his;My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd,If not with vantage, as Demetrius';

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And, which is more than all these boasts can be,I am beloved of beauteous Hermia:Why should not I then prosecute my right?Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head,Made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena,And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry,Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

THESEUS:I must confess that I have heard so much,And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof;But, being over-full of self-affairs,My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come;And come, Egeus; you shall go with me,I have some private schooling for you both.For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourselfTo fit your fancies to your father's will;Or else the law of Athens yields you up--Which by no means we may extenuate--To death, or to a vow of single life.Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?Demetrius and Egeus, go along:I must employ you in some businessAgainst our nuptial and confer with youOf something nearly that concerns yourselves.

EGEUS:With duty and desire we follow you.

[Exeunt all but LYSANDER and HERMIA]

LYSANDER:How now, my love! why is your cheek so pale?How chance the roses there do fade so fast?HERMIA:Belike for want of rain, which I could wellBeteem them from the tempest of my eyes.

LYSANDER:

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Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,Could ever hear by tale or history,The course of true love never did run smooth;But, either it was different in blood,--

HERMIA:O cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low.

LYSANDER:Or else misgraffed in respect of years,--

HERMIA:O spite! too old to be engaged to young.

LYSANDER:Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,--

HERMIA:O hell! to choose love by another's eyes.

LYSANDER:Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,Making it momentany as a sound,Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;Brief as the lightning in the collied night,That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!'The jaws of darkness do devour it up:So quick bright things come to confusion.

HERMIA:If then true lovers have been ever cross'd,It stands as an edict in destiny:Then let us teach our trial patience,Because it is a customary cross,As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs,Wishes and tears, poor fancy's followers.

LYSANDER:

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A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, Hermia.I have a widow aunt, a dowagerOf great revenue, and she hath no child:From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;And she respects me as her only son.There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee;And to that place the sharp Athenian lawCannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then,Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow night;And in the wood, a league without the town,Where I did meet thee once with Helena,To do observance to a morn of May,There will I stay for thee.

HERMIA:My good Lysander!I swear to thee, by Cupid's strongest bow,By his best arrow with the golden head,By the simplicity of Venus' doves,By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage queen,When the false Troyan under sail was seen,By all the vows that ever men have broke,In number more than ever women spoke,In that same place thou hast appointed me,To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

LYSANDER:Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.

[Enter HELENA]

HERMIA:God speed fair Helena! whither away?

HELENA:Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair!Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet airMore tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,

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When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.Sickness is catching: O, were favour so,Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,The rest I'd give to be to you translated.O, teach me how you look, and with what artYou sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.

HERMIA:I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

HELENA:O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!

HERMIA:I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

HELENA:O that my prayers could such affection move!

HERMIA:The more I hate, the more he follows me.

HELENA:The more I love, the more he hateth me.

HERMIA:His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

HELENA:None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

HERMIA:Take comfort: he no more shall see my face;Lysander and myself will fly this place.Before the time I did Lysander see,Seem'd Athens as a paradise to me:

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O, then, what graces in my love do dwell,That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!

LYSANDER:Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth beholdHer silver visage in the watery glass,Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal,Through Athens' gates have we devised to steal.

HERMIA:And in the wood, where often you and IUpon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie,Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,There my Lysander and myself shall meet;And thence from Athens turn away our eyes,To seek new friends and stranger companies.Farewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us;And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius!Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sightFrom lovers' food till morrow deep midnight.

LYSANDER:I will, my Hermia.

[Exit HERMIA]

Helena, adieu:As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!

[Exit]

HELENA:How happy some o'er other some can be!Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;He will not know what all but he do know:

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And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,So I, admiring of his qualities:Things base and vile, folding no quantity,Love can transpose to form and dignity:Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind:Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste;Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:And therefore is Love said to be a child,Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,So the boy Love is perjured every where:For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne,He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine;And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,So he dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt.I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight:Then to the wood will he to-morrow nightPursue her; and for this intelligenceIf I have thanks, it is a dear expense:But herein mean I to enrich my pain,To have his sight thither and back again.

[Exit]

SCENE II

Athens. QUINCE'S house.

[Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING]

QUINCE:Is all our company here?

BOTTOM:You were best to call them generally, man by man,according to the scrip.

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QUINCE:Here is the scroll of every man's name, which isthought fit, through all Athens, to play in ourinterlude before the duke and the duchess, on hiswedding-day at night.

BOTTOM:First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treatson, then read the names of the actors, and so growto a point.

QUINCE:Marry, our play is, The most lamentable comedy, andmost cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

BOTTOM:A very good piece of work, I assure you, and amerry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth youractors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.

QUINCE:Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver.

BOTTOM:Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.

QUINCE:You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

BOTTOM:What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant?

QUINCE:A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love.BOTTOM:That will ask some tears in the true performing ofit: if I do it, let the audience look to theireyes; I will move storms, I will condole in somemeasure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a

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tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part totear a cat in, to make all split.The raging rocksAnd shivering shocksShall break the locksOf prison gates;And Phibbus' carShall shine from farAnd make and marThe foolish Fates.This was lofty! Now name the rest of the players.This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; a lover ismore condoling.

QUINCE:Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

FLUTE:Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE:Flute, you must take Thisby on you.

FLUTE:What is Thisby? a wandering knight?

QUINCE:It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

FLUTE:Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.

QUINCE:That's all one: you shall play it in a mask, andyou may speak as small as you will.BOTTOM:An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too, I'llspeak in a monstrous little voice. 'Thisne,Thisne;' 'Ah, Pyramus, lover dear! thy Thisby dear,and lady dear!'

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QUINCE:No, no; you must play Pyramus: and, Flute, you Thisby.

BOTTOM:Well, proceed.

QUINCE:Robin Starveling, the tailor.

STARVELING:Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE:Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother.Tom Snout, the tinker.

SNOUT:Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE:You, Pyramus' father: myself, Thisby's father:Snug, the joiner; you, the lion's part: and, Ihope, here is a play fitted.

SNUG:Have you the lion's part written? pray you, if itbe, give it me, for I am slow of study.

QUINCE:You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.

BOTTOM:Let me play the lion too: I will roar, that I willdo any man's heart good to hear me; I will roar,that I will make the duke say 'Let him roar again,let him roar again.'

QUINCE:

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An you should do it too terribly, you would frightthe duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek;and that were enough to hang us all.

ALL:That would hang us, every mother's son.

BOTTOM:I grant you, friends, if that you should fright theladies out of their wits, they would have no morediscretion but to hang us: but I will aggravate myvoice so that I will roar you as gently as anysucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere anynightingale.

QUINCE:You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is asweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in asummer's day; a most lovely gentleman-like man:therefore you must needs play Pyramus.

BOTTOM:Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I bestto play it in?

QUINCE:Why, what you will.

BOTTOM:I will discharge it in either your straw-colourbeard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grainbeard, or your French-crown-colour beard, yourperfect yellow.

QUINCE:Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, andthen you will play bare-faced. But, masters, hereare your parts: and I am to entreat you, request

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you and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night;and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without thetown, by moonlight; there will we rehearse, for ifwe meet in the city, we shall be dogged withcompany, and our devices known. In the meantime Iwill draw a bill of properties, such as our playwants. I pray you, fail me not.

BOTTOM:We will meet; and there we may rehearse mostobscenely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect: adieu.

QUINCE:At the duke's oak we meet.

BOTTOM:Enough; hold or cut bow-strings.

[Exeunt]

ACT II

SCENE I

A wood near Athens

[Enter, from opposite sides, a Fairy, and PUCK]

PUCK:How now, spirit! whither wander you?

Fairy:Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere,Swifter than the moon's sphere;And I serve the fairy queen,

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To dew her orbs upon the green.The cowslips tall her pensioners be:In their gold coats spots you see;Those be rubies, fairy favours,In those freckles live their savours:I must go seek some dewdrops hereAnd hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:Our queen and all our elves come here anon.

PUCK:The king doth keep his revels here to-night:Take heed the queen come not within his sight;For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,Because that she as her attendant hathA lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;She never had so sweet a changeling;And jealous Oberon would have the childKnight of his train, to trace the forests wild;But she perforce withholds the loved boy,Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy:And now they never meet in grove or green,By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,But, they do square, that all their elves for fearCreep into acorn-cups and hide them there.

Fairy:Either I mistake your shape and making quite,Or else you are that shrewd and knavish spriteCall'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you heThat frights the maidens of the villagery;Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quernAnd bootless make the breathless housewife churn;And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,You do their work, and they shall have good luck:Are not you he?

PUCK:

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Thou speak'st aright;I am that merry wanderer of the night.I jest to Oberon and make him smileWhen I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,In very likeness of a roasted crab,And when she drinks, against her lips I bobAnd on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh,And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swearA merrier hour was never wasted there.But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Fairy:And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!

[Enter, from one side, OBERON, with his train; from the other, TITANIA, with hers]

OBERON:Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

TITANIA:What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence:I have forsworn his bed and company.

OBERON:Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?

TITANIA:Then I must be thy lady: but I knowWhen thou hast stolen away from fairy land,And in the shape of Corin sat all day,

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Playing on pipes of corn and versing loveTo amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,Come from the farthest Steppe of India?But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love,To Theseus must be wedded, and you comeTo give their bed joy and prosperity.

OBERON:How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering nightFrom Perigenia, whom he ravished?And make him with fair AEgle break his faith,With Ariadne and Antiopa?

TITANIA:These are the forgeries of jealousy:And never, since the middle summer's spring,Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,By paved fountain or by rushy brook,Or in the beached margent of the sea,To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,As in revenge, have suck'd up from the seaContagious fogs; which falling in the landHave every pelting river made so proudThat they have overborne their continents:The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green cornHath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;The fold stands empty in the drowned field,And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,And the quaint mazes in the wanton greenFor lack of tread are undistinguishable:The human mortals want their winter here;No night is now with hymn or carol blest:

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Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,Pale in her anger, washes all the air,That rheumatic diseases do abound:And thorough this distemperature we seeThe seasons alter: hoary-headed frostsFar in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,And on old Hiems' thin and icy crownAn odorous chaplet of sweet summer budsIs, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,The childing autumn, angry winter, changeTheir wonted liveries, and the mazed world,By their increase, now knows not which is which:And this same progeny of evils comesFrom our debate, from our dissension;We are their parents and original.

OBERON:Do you amend it then; it lies in you:Why should Titania cross her Oberon?I do but beg a little changeling boy,To be my henchman.

TITANIA:Set your heart at rest:The fairy land buys not the child of me.His mother was a votaress of my order:And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,Full often hath she gossip'd by my side,And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,Marking the embarked traders on the flood,When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceiveAnd grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;Which she, with pretty and with swimming gaitFollowing,--her womb then rich with my young squire,--Would imitate, and sail upon the land,To fetch me trifles, and return again,As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;And for her sake do I rear up her boy,And for her sake I will not part with him.

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OBERON:How long within this wood intend you stay?

TITANIA:Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day.If you will patiently dance in our roundAnd see our moonlight revels, go with us;If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

OBERON:Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.

TITANIA:Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away!We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.

[Exit TITANIA with her train]

OBERON:Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this groveTill I torment thee for this injury.My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberestSince once I sat upon a promontory,And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's backUttering such dulcet and harmonious breathThat the rude sea grew civil at her songAnd certain stars shot madly from their spheres,To hear the sea-maid's music.

PUCK:I remember.

OBERON:That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,Flying between the cold moon and the earth,Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he tookAt a fair vestal throned by the west,And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;

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But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaftQuench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,And the imperial votaress passed on,In maiden meditation, fancy-free.Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:It fell upon a little western flower,Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,And maidens call it love-in-idleness.Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laidWill make or man or woman madly doteUpon the next live creature that it sees.Fetch me this herb; and be thou here againEre the leviathan can swim a league.

PUCK:I'll put a girdle round about the earthIn forty minutes.

[Exit]

OBERON:Having once this juice,I'll watch Titania when she is asleep,And drop the liquor of it in her eyes.The next thing then she waking looks upon,Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,She shall pursue it with the soul of love:And ere I take this charm from off her sight,As I can take it with another herb,I'll make her render up her page to me.But who comes here? I am invisible;And I will overhear their conference.

[Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA, following him]

DEMETRIUS:I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?

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The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me.Thou told'st me they were stolen unto this wood;And here am I, and wode within this wood,Because I cannot meet my Hermia.Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.

HELENA:You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant;But yet you draw not iron, for my heartIs true as steel: leave you your power to draw,And I shall have no power to follow you.

DEMETRIUS:Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?Or, rather, do I not in plainest truthTell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you?

HELENA:And even for that do I love you the more.I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,Unworthy as I am, to follow you.What worser place can I beg in your love,--And yet a place of high respect with me,--Than to be used as you use your dog?

DEMETRIUS:Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit;For I am sick when I do look on thee.

HELENA:And I am sick when I look not on you.

DEMETRIUS:You do impeach your modesty too much,To leave the city and commit yourself

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Into the hands of one that loves you not;To trust the opportunity of nightAnd the ill counsel of a desert placeWith the rich worth of your virginity.

HELENA:Your virtue is my privilege: for thatIt is not night when I do see your face,Therefore I think I am not in the night;Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,For you in my respect are all the world:Then how can it be said I am alone,When all the world is here to look on me?

DEMETRIUS:I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.

HELENA:The wildest hath not such a heart as you.Run when you will, the story shall be changed:Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hindMakes speed to catch the tiger; bootless speed,When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

DEMETRIUS:I will not stay thy questions; let me go:Or, if thou follow me, do not believeBut I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

HELENA:Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex:We cannot fight for love, as men may do;We should be wood and were not made to woo.

[Exit DEMETRIUS]

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I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,To die upon the hand I love so well.

[Exit]

OBERON:Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove,Thou shalt fly him and he shall seek thy love.

[Re-enter PUCK]

Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

PUCK:Ay, there it is.

OBERON:I pray thee, give it me.I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,And make her full of hateful fantasies.Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:A sweet Athenian lady is in loveWith a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;But do it when the next thing he espiesMay be the lady: thou shalt know the manBy the Athenian garments he hath on.Effect it with some care, that he may proveMore fond on her than she upon her love:And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.

PUCK:Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.

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[Exeunt]

SCENE II

Another part of the wood

[Enter TITANIA, with her train]

TITANIA:Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,To make my small elves coats, and some keep backThe clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wondersAt our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;Then to your offices and let me rest.

[The Fairies sing]

You spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,Come not near our fairy queen.Philomel, with melodySing in our sweet lullaby;Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:Never harm,Nor spell nor charm,Come our lovely lady nigh;So, good night, with lullaby.Weaving spiders, come not here;Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!Beetles black, approach not near;Worm nor snail, do no offence.Philomel, with melody, & c.

Fairy:

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Hence, away! now all is well:One aloof stand sentinel.

[Exeunt Fairies. TITANIA sleeps

Enter OBERON and squeezes the flower on TITANIA's eyelids]

OBERON:What thou seest when thou dost wake,Do it for thy true-love take,Love and languish for his sake:Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,Pard, or boar with bristled hair,In thy eye that shall appearWhen thou wakest, it is thy dear:Wake when some vile thing is near.

[Exit

Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA]

LYSANDER:Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;And to speak troth, I have forgot our way:We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,And tarry for the comfort of the day.

HERMIA:Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed;For I upon this bank will rest my head.

LYSANDER:One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth.

HERMIA:Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,Lie further off yet, do not lie so near.

LYSANDER:

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O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence!Love takes the meaning in love's conference.I mean, that my heart unto yours is knitSo that but one heart we can make of it;Two bosoms interchained with an oath;So then two bosoms and a single troth.Then by your side no bed-room me deny;For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.

HERMIA:Lysander riddles very prettily:Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied.But, gentle friend, for love and courtesyLie further off; in human modesty,Such separation as may well be saidBecomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid,So far be distant; and, good night, sweet friend:Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!

LYSANDER:Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I;And then end life when I end loyalty!Here is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!

HERMIA:With half that wish the wisher's eyes be press'd!

[They sleep

Enter PUCK]

PUCK:Through the forest have I gone.But Athenian found I none,On whose eyes I might approveThis flower's force in stirring love.Night and silence.--Who is here?Weeds of Athens he doth wear:This is he, my master said,

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Despised the Athenian maid;And here the maiden, sleeping sound,On the dank and dirty ground.Pretty soul! she durst not lieNear this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.Churl, upon thy eyes I throwAll the power this charm doth owe.When thou wakest, let love forbidSleep his seat on thy eyelid:So awake when I am gone;For I must now to Oberon.

[Exit

Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running]

HELENA:Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.

DEMETRIUS:I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

HELENA:O, wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so.

DEMETRIUS:Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go.

[Exit]

HELENAO, I am out of breath in this fond chase!The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies;For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:If so, my eyes are oftener wash'd than hers.No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;For beasts that meet me run away for fear:Therefore no marvel though Demetrius

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Do, as a monster fly my presence thus.What wicked and dissembling glass of mineMade me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne?But who is here? Lysander! on the ground!Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.Lysander if you live, good sir, awake.

LYSANDER:[Awaking] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.Transparent Helena! Nature shows art,That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a wordIs that vile name to perish on my sword!

HELENA:Do not say so, Lysander; say not soWhat though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though?Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content.

LYSANDER:Content with Hermia! No; I do repentThe tedious minutes I with her have spent.Not Hermia but Helena I love:Who will not change a raven for a dove?The will of man is by his reason sway'd;And reason says you are the worthier maid.Things growing are not ripe until their seasonSo I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;And touching now the point of human skill,Reason becomes the marshal to my willAnd leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlookLove's stories written in love's richest book.

HELENA:Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,That I did never, no, nor never can,Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,But you must flout my insufficiency?

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Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do,In such disdainful manner me to woo.But fare you well: perforce I must confessI thought you lord of more true gentleness.O, that a lady, of one man refused.Should of another therefore be abused!

[Exit]

LYSANDER:She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there:And never mayst thou come Lysander near!For as a surfeit of the sweetest thingsThe deepest loathing to the stomach brings,Or as tie heresies that men do leaveAre hated most of those they did deceive,So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,Of all be hated, but the most of me!And, all my powers, address your love and mightTo honour Helen and to be her knight!

[Exit]

HERMIA:[Awaking] Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy bestTo pluck this crawling serpent from my breast!Ay me, for pity! what a dream was here!Lysander, look how I do quake with fear:Methought a serpent eat my heart away,And you sat smiling at his cruel pray.Lysander! what, removed? Lysander! lord!What, out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word?Alack, where are you speak, an if you hear;Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.No? then I well perceive you all not nighEither death or you I'll find immediately.

[Exit]

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from Othello, the Moore of Venice

by William Shakespeare

ACT I

SCENE I

Venice. A street.

[Enter RODERIGO and IAGO]

RODERIGO:Tush! never tell me; I take it much unkindlyThat thou, Iago, who hast had my purseAs if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.

IAGO:'Sblood, but you will not hear me:If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me.

RODERIGO:Thou told'st me thou didst hold him in thy hate.

IAGO:Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city,In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,Off-capp'd to him: and, by the faith of man,I know my price, I am worth no worse a place:But he; as loving his own pride and purposes,Evades them, with a bombast circumstanceHorribly stuff'd with epithets of war;And, in conclusion,Nonsuits my mediators; for, 'Certes,' says he,'I have already chose my officer.'And what was he?

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Forsooth, a great arithmetician,One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife;That never set a squadron in the field,Nor the division of a battle knowsMore than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric,Wherein the toged consuls can proposeAs masterly as he: mere prattle, without practise,Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election:And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proofAt Rhodes, at Cyprus and on other groundsChristian and heathen, must be be-lee'd and calm'dBy debitor and creditor: this counter-caster,He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,And I--God bless the mark!--his Moorship's ancient.

RODERIGO:By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman.

IAGO:Why, there's no remedy; 'tis the curse of service,Preferment goes by letter and affection,And not by old gradation, where each secondStood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself,Whether I in any just term am affinedTo love the Moor.

RODERIGO:I would not follow him then.

IAGO:O, sir, content you;I follow him to serve my turn upon him:We cannot all be masters, nor all mastersCannot be truly follow'd. You shall markMany a duteous and knee-crooking knave,That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,Wears out his time, much like his master's ass,For nought but provender, and when he's old, cashier'd:Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are

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Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty,Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,Do well thrive by them and when they have linedtheir coatsDo themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,It is as sure as you are Roderigo,Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:In following him, I follow but myself;Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,But seeming so, for my peculiar end:For when my outward action doth demonstrateThe native act and figure of my heartIn compliment extern, 'tis not long afterBut I will wear my heart upon my sleeveFor daws to peck at: I am not what I am.

RODERIGO:What a full fortune does the thicklips oweIf he can carry't thus!

IAGO:Call up her father,Rouse him: make after him, poison his delight,Proclaim him in the streets; incense her kinsmen,And, though he in a fertile climate dwell,Plague him with flies: though that his joy be joy,Yet throw such changes of vexation on't,As it may lose some colour.

RODERIGO:Here is her father's house; I'll call aloud.

IAGO:Do, with like timorous accent and dire yellAs when, by night and negligence, the fireIs spied in populous cities.

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RODERIGOWhat, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

IAGO:Awake! what, ho, Brabantio! thieves! thieves! thieves!Look to your house, your daughter and your bags!Thieves! thieves!

[BRABANTIO appears above, at a window]

BRABANTIO:What is the reason of this terrible summons?What is the matter there?

RODERIGO:Signior, is all your family within?

IAGOAre your doors lock'd?

BRABANTIO:Why, wherefore ask you this?

IAGO:'Zounds, sir, you're robb'd; for shame, put onyour gown;Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;Even now, now, very now, an old black ramIs topping your white ewe. Arise, arise;Awake the snorting citizens with the bell,Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you:Arise, I say.

BRABANTIO:What, have you lost your wits?

RODERIGO:Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

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BRABANTIO:Not I what are you?

RODERIGO:My name is Roderigo.

BRABANTIO:The worser welcome:I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors:In honest plainness thou hast heard me sayMy daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness,Being full of supper and distempering draughts,Upon malicious bravery, dost thou comeTo start my quiet.

RODERIGO:Sir, sir, sir,--

BRABANTIO:But thou must needs be sureMy spirit and my place have in them powerTo make this bitter to thee.

RODERIGO:Patience, good sir.

BRABANTIO:What tell'st thou me of robbing? this is Venice;My house is not a grange.

RODERIGO:Most grave Brabantio,In simple and pure soul I come to you.

IAGO:'Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will notserve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come todo you service and you think we are ruffians, you'llhave your daughter covered with a Barbary horse;

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you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll havecoursers for cousins and gennets for germans.

BRABANTIO:What profane wretch art thou?

IAGO:I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughterand the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.

BRABANTIO:Thou art a villain.

IAGO:You are--a senator.

BRABANTIO:This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo.

RODERIGO:Sir, I will answer any thing. But, I beseech you,If't be your pleasure and most wise consent,As partly I find it is, that your fair daughter,At this odd-even and dull watch o' the night,Transported, with no worse nor better guardBut with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor--If this be known to you and your allowance,We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs;But if you know not this, my manners tell meWe have your wrong rebuke. Do not believeThat, from the sense of all civility,I thus would play and trifle with your reverence:Your daughter, if you have not given her leave,I say again, hath made a gross revolt;Tying her duty, beauty, wit and fortunesIn an extravagant and wheeling strangerOf here and every where. Straight satisfy yourself:If she be in her chamber or your house,

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Let loose on me the justice of the stateFor thus deluding you.

BRABANTIO:Strike on the tinder, ho!Give me a taper! call up all my people!This accident is not unlike my dream:Belief of it oppresses me already.Light, I say! light!

[Exit above]

IAGO:Farewell; for I must leave you:It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place,To be produced--as, if I stay, I shall--Against the Moor: for, I do know, the state,However this may gall him with some cheque,Cannot with safety cast him, for he's embark'dWith such loud reason to the Cyprus wars,Which even now stand in act, that, for their souls,Another of his fathom they have none,To lead their business: in which regard,Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains.Yet, for necessity of present life,I must show out a flag and sign of love,Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him,Lead to the Sagittary the raised search;And there will I be with him. So, farewell.

[Exit

Enter, below, BRABANTIO, and Servants with torches]

BRABANTIO:It is too true an evil: gone she is;And what's to come of my despised timeIs nought but bitterness. Now, Roderigo,Where didst thou see her? O unhappy girl!With the Moor, say'st thou? Who would be a father!

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How didst thou know 'twas she? O she deceives mePast thought! What said she to you? Get more tapers:Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you?

RODERIGO:Truly, I think they are.

BRABANTIO:O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood!Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters' mindsBy what you see them act. Is there not charmsBy which the property of youth and maidhoodMay be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo,Of some such thing?

RODERIGO:Yes, sir, I have indeed.

BRABANTIO:Call up my brother. O, would you had had her!Some one way, some another. Do you knowWhere we may apprehend her and the Moor?

RODERIGO:I think I can discover him, if you please,To get good guard and go along with me.

BRABANTIO:Pray you, lead on. At every house I'll call;I may command at most. Get weapons, ho!And raise some special officers of night.On, good Roderigo: I'll deserve your pains.

[Exeunt]

SCENE II

Another street

[Enter OTHELLO, IAGO, and Attendants with torches]

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IAGO:Though in the trade of war I have slain men,Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscienceTo do no contrived murder: I lack iniquitySometimes to do me service: nine or ten timesI had thought to have yerk'd him here under the ribs.

OTHELLO:'Tis better as it is.

IAGO:Nay, but he prated,And spoke such scurvy and provoking termsAgainst your honourThat, with the little godliness I have,I did full hard forbear him. But, I pray you, sir,Are you fast married? Be assured of this,That the magnifico is much beloved,And hath in his effect a voice potentialAs double as the duke's: he will divorce you;Or put upon you what restraint and grievanceThe law, with all his might to enforce it on,Will give him cable.

OTHELLO:Let him do his spite:My services which I have done the signioryShall out-tongue his complaints. 'Tis yet to know,--Which, when I know that boasting is an honour,I shall promulgate--I fetch my life and beingFrom men of royal siege, and my demeritsMay speak unbonneted to as proud a fortuneAs this that I have reach'd: for know, Iago,But that I love the gentle Desdemona,I would not my unhoused free conditionPut into circumscription and confineFor the sea's worth. But, look! what lights come yond?

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IAGO:Those are the raised father and his friends:You were best go in.

OTHELLO:Not I I must be found:My parts, my title and my perfect soulShall manifest me rightly. Is it they?

IAGO:By Janus, I think no.

[Enter CASSIO, and certain Officers with torches]

OTHELLO:The servants of the duke, and my lieutenant.The goodness of the night upon you, friends!What is the news?

CASSIO:The duke does greet you, general,And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance,Even on the instant.

OTHELLO:What is the matter, think you?

CASSIO:Something from Cyprus as I may divine:It is a business of some heat: the galleysHave sent a dozen sequent messengersThis very night at one another's heels,And many of the consuls, raised and met,Are at the duke's already: you have beenhotly call'd for;When, being not at your lodging to be found,The senate hath sent about three several guestsTo search you out.

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OTHELLO:'Tis well I am found by you.I will but spend a word here in the house,And go with you.

[Exit]

CASSIO:Ancient, what makes he here?

IAGO:'Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack:If it prove lawful prize, he's made for ever.

CASSIO:I do not understand.

IAGO:He's married.

CASSIO:To who?

[Re-enter OTHELLO]

IAGO:Marry, to--Come, captain, will you go?

OTHELLO:Have with you.

CASSIO:Here comes another troop to seek for you.

IAGO:It is Brabantio. General, be advised;He comes to bad intent.

[Enter BRABANTIO, RODERIGO, and Officers with torches and weapons]

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OTHELLO:Holla! stand there!

RODERIGO:Signior, it is the Moor.

BRABANTIO:Down with him, thief!

[They draw on both sides]

IAGO:You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you.

OTHELLO:Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.Good signior, you shall more command with yearsThan with your weapons.

BRABANTIO:O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter?Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her;For I'll refer me to all things of sense,If she in chains of magic were not bound,Whether a maid so tender, fair and happy,So opposite to marriage that she shunnedThe wealthy curled darlings of our nation,Would ever have, to incur a general mock,Run from her guardage to the sooty bosomOf such a thing as thou, to fear, not to delight.Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in senseThat thou hast practised on her with foul charms,Abused her delicate youth with drugs or mineralsThat weaken motion: I'll have't disputed on;'Tis probable and palpable to thinking.I therefore apprehend and do attach theeFor an abuser of the world, a practiserOf arts inhibited and out of warrant.Lay hold upon him: if he do resist,Subdue him at his peril.

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OTHELLO:Hold your hands,Both you of my inclining, and the rest:Were it my cue to fight, I should have known itWithout a prompter. Where will you that I goTo answer this your charge?

BRABANTIO:To prison, till fit timeOf law and course of direct sessionCall thee to answer.

OTHELLO:What if I do obey?How may the duke be therewith satisfied,Whose messengers are here about my side,Upon some present business of the stateTo bring me to him?

First Officer:'Tis true, most worthy signior;The duke's in council and your noble self,I am sure, is sent for.

BRABANTIO:How! the duke in council!In this time of the night! Bring him away:Mine's not an idle cause: the duke himself,Or any of my brothers of the state,Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own;For if such actions may have passage free,Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.

[Exeunt]

SCENE III

A council-chamber

[The DUKE and Senators sitting at a table; Officers attending]

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DUKE OF VENICE:There is no composition in these newsThat gives them credit.

First Senator:Indeed, they are disproportion'd;My letters say a hundred and seven galleys.

DUKE OF VENICE:And mine, a hundred and forty.

Second Senator:And mine, two hundred:But though they jump not on a just account,--As in these cases, where the aim reports,'Tis oft with difference--yet do they all confirmA Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.

DUKE OF VENICE:Nay, it is possible enough to judgment:I do not so secure me in the error,But the main article I do approveIn fearful sense.

Sailor:[Within] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho!

First Officer:A messenger from the galleys.

[Enter a Sailor]

DUKE OF VENICE:Now, what's the business?

Sailor:The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes;So was I bid report here to the stateBy Signior Angelo.

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DUKE OF VENICE:How say you by this change?

First Senator:This cannot be,By no assay of reason: 'tis a pageant,To keep us in false gaze. When we considerThe importancy of Cyprus to the Turk,And let ourselves again but understand,That as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,So may he with more facile question bear it,For that it stands not in such warlike brace,But altogether lacks the abilitiesThat Rhodes is dress'd in: if we make thought of this,We must not think the Turk is so unskilfulTo leave that latest which concerns him first,Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain,To wake and wage a danger profitless.

DUKE OF VENICE:Nay, in all confidence, he's not for Rhodes.

First Officer:Here is more news.

[Enter a Messenger]

Messenger:The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,Steering with due course towards the isle of Rhodes,Have there injointed them with an after fleet.

First Senator:Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess?

Messenger:Of thirty sail: and now they do restemTheir backward course, bearing with frank appearanceTheir purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano,Your trusty and most valiant servitor,

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With his free duty recommends you thus,And prays you to believe him.

DUKE OF VENICE:'Tis certain, then, for Cyprus.Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?

First Senator:He's now in Florence.

DUKE OF VENICE:Write from us to him; post-post-haste dispatch.

First SenatorHere comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor.

[Enter BRABANTIO, OTHELLO, IAGO, RODERIGO, and Officers]

DUKE OF VENICE:Valiant Othello, we must straight employ youAgainst the general enemy Ottoman.

[To BRABANTIO]

I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior;We lack'd your counsel and your help tonight.

BRABANTIO:So did I yours. Good your grace, pardon me;Neither my place nor aught I heard of businessHath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general careTake hold on me, for my particular griefIs of so flood-gate and o'erbearing natureThat it engluts and swallows other sorrowsAnd it is still itself.

DUKE OF VENICE:Why, what's the matter?

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BRABANTIO:My daughter! O, my daughter!

DUKE OF VENICE, Senator:Dead?

BRABANTIO:Ay, to me;She is abused, stol'n from me, and corruptedBy spells and medicines bought of mountebanks;For nature so preposterously to err,Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,Sans witchcraft could not.

DUKE OF VENICE:Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceedingHath thus beguiled your daughter of herselfAnd you of her, the bloody book of lawYou shall yourself read in the bitter letterAfter your own sense, yea, though our proper sonStood in your action.

BRABANTIO:Humbly I thank your grace.Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems,Your special mandate for the state-affairsHath hither brought.

DUKE OF VENICE, Senator:We are very sorry for't.

DUKE OF VENICE:[To OTHELLO] What, in your own part, can you say to this?

BRABANTIO:Nothing, but this is so.

OTHELLO:Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,My very noble and approved good masters,

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That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,It is most true; true, I have married her:The very head and front of my offendingHath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace:For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,Till now some nine moons wasted, they have usedTheir dearest action in the tented field,And little of this great world can I speak,More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,And therefore little shall I grace my causeIn speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliverOf my whole course of love; what drugs, what charms,What conjuration and what mighty magic,For such proceeding I am charged withal,I won his daughter.

BRABANTIO:A maiden never bold;Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motionBlush'd at herself; and she, in spite of nature,Of years, of country, credit, every thing,To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on!It is a judgment maim'd and most imperfectThat will confess perfection so could errAgainst all rules of nature, and must be drivenTo find out practises of cunning hell,Why this should be. I therefore vouch againThat with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,Or with some dram conjured to this effect,He wrought upon her.

DUKE OF VENICE:To vouch this, is no proof,Without more wider and more overt testThan these thin habits and poor likelihoodsOf modern seeming do prefer against him.

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First Senator:But, Othello, speak:Did you by indirect and forced coursesSubdue and poison this young maid's affections?Or came it by request and such fair questionAs soul to soul affordeth?

OTHELLO:I do beseech you,Send for the lady to the Sagittary,And let her speak of me before her father:If you do find me foul in her report,The trust, the office I do hold of you,Not only take away, but let your sentenceEven fall upon my life.

DUKE OF VENICE:Fetch Desdemona hither.

OTHELLO:Ancient, conduct them: you best know the place.

[Exeunt IAGO and Attendants]

And, till she come, as truly as to heavenI do confess the vices of my blood,So justly to your grave ears I'll presentHow I did thrive in this fair lady's love,And she in mine.

DUKE OF VENICE:Say it, Othello.

OTHELLO:Her father loved me; oft invited me;Still question'd me the story of my life,From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,That I have passed.I ran it through, even from my boyish days,To the very moment that he bade me tell it;

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Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,Of moving accidents by flood and fieldOf hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,Of being taken by the insolent foeAnd sold to slavery, of my redemption thenceAnd portance in my travels' history:Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heavenIt was my hint to speak,--such was the process;And of the Cannibals that each other eat,The Anthropophagi and men whose headsDo grow beneath their shoulders. This to hearWould Desdemona seriously incline:But still the house-affairs would draw her thence:Which ever as she could with haste dispatch,She'ld come again, and with a greedy earDevour up my discourse: which I observing,Took once a pliant hour, and found good meansTo draw from her a prayer of earnest heartThat I would all my pilgrimage dilate,Whereof by parcels she had something heard,But not intentively: I did consent,And often did beguile her of her tears,When I did speak of some distressful strokeThat my youth suffer'd. My story being done,She gave me for my pains a world of sighs:She swore, in faith, twas strange, 'twas passing strange,'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful:She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'dThat heaven had made her such a man: she thank'd me,And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,I should but teach him how to tell my story.And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,And I loved her that she did pity them.This only is the witchcraft I have used:Here comes the lady; let her witness it.

[Enter DESDEMONA, IAGO, and Attendants]

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DUKE OF VENICE:I think this tale would win my daughter too.Good Brabantio,Take up this mangled matter at the best:Men do their broken weapons rather useThan their bare hands.

BRABANTIO:I pray you, hear her speak:If she confess that she was half the wooer,Destruction on my head, if my bad blameLight on the man! Come hither, gentle mistress:Do you perceive in all this noble companyWhere most you owe obedience?

DESDEMONA:My noble father,I do perceive here a divided duty:To you I am bound for life and education;My life and education both do learn meHow to respect you; you are the lord of duty;I am hitherto your daughter: but here's my husband,And so much duty as my mother show'dTo you, preferring you before her father,So much I challenge that I may professDue to the Moor my lord.

BRABANTIO:God be wi' you! I have done.Please it your grace, on to the state-affairs:I had rather to adopt a child than get it.Come hither, Moor:I here do give thee that with all my heartWhich, but thou hast already, with all my heartI would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel,I am glad at soul I have no other child:For thy escape would teach me tyranny,To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord.

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DUKE OF VENICE:Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence,Which, as a grise or step, may help these loversInto your favour.When remedies are past, the griefs are endedBy seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.To mourn a mischief that is past and goneIs the next way to draw new mischief on.What cannot be preserved when fortune takesPatience her injury a mockery makes.The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief;He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.

BRABANTIO:So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile;We lose it not, so long as we can smile.He bears the sentence well that nothing bearsBut the free comfort which from thence he hears,But he bears both the sentence and the sorrowThat, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow.These sentences, to sugar, or to gall,Being strong on both sides, are equivocal:But words are words; I never yet did hearThat the bruised heart was pierced through the ear.I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state.

DUKE OF VENICE:The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes forCyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is bestknown to you; and though we have there a substituteof most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, asovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safervoice on you: you must therefore be content toslubber the gloss of your new fortunes with thismore stubborn and boisterous expedition.

OTHELLO:The tyrant custom, most grave senators,Hath made the flinty and steel couch of warMy thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnise

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A natural and prompt alacrityI find in hardness, and do undertakeThese present wars against the Ottomites.Most humbly therefore bending to your state,I crave fit disposition for my wife.Due reference of place and exhibition,With such accommodation and besortAs levels with her breeding.

DUKE OF VENICE:If you please,Be't at her father's.

BRABANTIO:I'll not have it so.

OTHELLO:Nor I.

DESDEMONA:Nor I; I would not there reside,To put my father in impatient thoughtsBy being in his eye. Most gracious duke,To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear;And let me find a charter in your voice,To assist my simpleness.

DUKE OF VENICE:What would You, Desdemona?

DESDEMONA:That I did love the Moor to live with him,My downright violence and storm of fortunesMay trumpet to the world: my heart's subduedEven to the very quality of my lord:I saw Othello's visage in his mind,And to his honour and his valiant partsDid I my soul and fortunes consecrate.So that, dear lords, if I be left behind,A moth of peace, and he go to the war,

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The rites for which I love him are bereft me,And I a heavy interim shall supportBy his dear absence. Let me go with him.

OTHELLO:Let her have your voices.Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not,To please the palate of my appetite,Nor to comply with heat--the young affectsIn me defunct--and proper satisfaction.But to be free and bounteous to her mind:And heaven defend your good souls, that you thinkI will your serious and great business scantFor she is with me: no, when light-wing'd toysOf feather'd Cupid seal with wanton dullnessMy speculative and officed instruments,That my disports corrupt and taint my business,Let housewives make a skillet of my helm,And all indign and base adversitiesMake head against my estimation!

DUKE OF VENICE:Be it as you shall privately determine,Either for her stay or going: the affair cries haste,And speed must answer it.

First Senator:You must away to-night.

OTHELLO:With all my heart.

DUKE OF VENICE:At nine i' the morning here we'll meet again.Othello, leave some officer behind,And he shall our commission bring to you;With such things else of quality and respectAs doth import you.

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OTHELLO:So please your grace, my ancient;A man he is of honest and trust:To his conveyance I assign my wife,With what else needful your good grace shall thinkTo be sent after me.

DUKE OF VENICE:Let it be so.Good night to every one.

[To BRABANTIO]

And, noble signior,If virtue no delighted beauty lack,Your son-in-law is far more fair than black.

First Senator:Adieu, brave Moor, use Desdemona well.

BRABANTIO:Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see:She has deceived her father, and may thee.

[Exeunt DUKE OF VENICE, Senators, Officers, & c]

OTHELLO:My life upon her faith! Honest Iago,My Desdemona must I leave to thee:I prithee, let thy wife attend on her:And bring them after in the best advantage.Come, Desdemona: I have but an hourOf love, of worldly matters and direction,To spend with thee: we must obey the time.

[Exeunt OTHELLO and DESDEMONA]

RODERIGO:Iago,--

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IAGO:What say'st thou, noble heart?

RODERIGO:What will I do, thinkest thou?

IAGO:Why, go to bed, and sleep.

RODERIGO:I will incontinently drown myself.

IAGO:If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why,thou silly gentleman!

RODERIGO:It is silliness to live when to live is torment; andthen have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.

IAGO:O villainous! I have looked upon the world for fourtimes seven years; and since I could distinguishbetwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found manthat knew how to love himself. Ere I would say, Iwould drown myself for the love of a guinea-hen, Iwould change my humanity with a baboon.

RODERIGO:What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be sofond; but it is not in my virtue to amend it.

IAGO:Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thusor thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the whichour wills are gardeners: so that if we will plantnettles, or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed upthyme, supply it with one gender of herbs, ordistract it with many, either to have it sterilewith idleness, or manured with industry, why, the

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power and corrigible authority of this lies in ourwills. If the balance of our lives had not onescale of reason to poise another of sensuality, theblood and baseness of our natures would conduct usto most preposterous conclusions: but we havereason to cool our raging motions, our carnalstings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this thatyou call love to be a sect or scion.

RODERIGO:It cannot be.

IAGO:It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission ofthe will. Come, be a man. Drown thyself! drowncats and blind puppies. I have professed me thyfriend and I confess me knit to thy deserving withcables of perdurable toughness; I could neverbetter stead thee than now. Put money in thypurse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favour withan usurped beard; I say, put money in thy purse. Itcannot be that Desdemona should long continue herlove to the Moor,-- put money in thy purse,--nor hehis to her: it was a violent commencement, and thoushalt see an answerable sequestration:--put butmoney in thy purse. These Moors are changeable intheir wills: fill thy purse with money:--the foodthat to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall beto him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. She mustchange for youth: when she is sated with his body,she will find the error of her choice: she musthave change, she must: therefore put money in thypurse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it amore delicate way than drowning. Make all the moneythou canst: if sanctimony and a frail vow betwixtan erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian nottoo hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thoushalt enjoy her; therefore make money. A pox ofdrowning thyself! it is clean out of the way: seek

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thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy thanto be drowned and go without her.

RODERIGO:Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend onthe issue?

IAGO:Thou art sure of me:--go, make money:--I have toldthee often, and I re-tell thee again and again, Ihate the Moor: my cause is hearted; thine hath noless reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revengeagainst him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dostthyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are manyevents in the womb of time which will be delivered.Traverse! go, provide thy money. We will have moreof this to-morrow. Adieu.

RODERIGO:Where shall we meet i' the morning?

IAGO:At my lodging.

RODERIGO:I'll be with thee betimes.

IAGO:Go to; farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo?

RODERIGO:What say you?

IAGO:No more of drowning, do you hear?

RODERIGO:I am changed: I'll go sell all my land.

[Exit]

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IAGO:Thus do I ever make my fool my purse:For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane,If I would time expend with such a snipe.But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor:And it is thought abroad, that 'twixt my sheetsHe has done my office: I know not if't be true;But I, for mere suspicion in that kind,Will do as if for surety. He holds me well;The better shall my purpose work on him.Cassio's a proper man: let me see now:To get his place and to plume up my willIn double knavery--How, how? Let's see:--After some time, to abuse Othello's earThat he is too familiar with his wife.He hath a person and a smooth disposeTo be suspected, framed to make women false.The Moor is of a free and open nature,That thinks men honest that but seem to be so,And will as tenderly be led by the noseAs asses are.I have't. It is engender'd. Hell and nightMust bring this monstrous birth to the world's light.

[Exit]

ACT IV

SCENE I

Cyprus. Before the castle.

[Enter OTHELLO and IAGO]

IAGO:Will you think so?

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OTHELLO:Think so, Iago!

IAGO:What,To kiss in private?

OTHELLO:An unauthorized kiss.

IAGO:Or to be naked with her friend in bedAn hour or more, not meaning any harm?

OTHELLO:Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm!It is hypocrisy against the devil:They that mean virtuously, and yet do so,The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt heaven.

IAGO:So they do nothing, 'tis a venial slip:But if I give my wife a handkerchief,--

OTHELLO:What then?

IAGO:Why, then, 'tis hers, my lord; and, being hers,She may, I think, bestow't on any man.

OTHELLO:She is protectress of her honour too:May she give that?

IAGO:Her honour is an essence that's not seen;They have it very oft that have it not:But, for the handkerchief,--

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OTHELLO:By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it.Thou said'st, it comes o'er my memory,As doth the raven o'er the infected house,Boding to all--he had my handkerchief.

IAGO:Ay, what of that?

OTHELLO:That's not so good now.

IAGO:What,If I had said I had seen him do you wrong?Or heard him say,--as knaves be such abroad,Who having, by their own importunate suit,Or voluntary dotage of some mistress,Convinced or supplied them, cannot chooseBut they must blab—

OTHELLO:Hath he said any thing?

IAGO:He hath, my lord; but be you well assured,No more than he'll unswear.

OTHELLO:What hath he said?

IAGO:'Faith, that he did--I know not what he did.

OTHELLO:What? what?

IAGO:Lie—

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OTHELLO:With her?

IAGO:With her, on her; what you will.

OTHELLO:Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, whenthey belie her. Lie with her! that's fulsome.--Handkerchief--confessions--handkerchief!--Toconfess, and be hanged for his labour;--first, to behanged, and then to confess.--I tremble at it.Nature would not invest herself in such shadowingpassion without some instruction. It is not wordsthat shake me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips.--Is't possible?--Confess--handkerchief!--O devil!--

[Falls in a trance]

IAGO:Work on,My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught;And many worthy and chaste dames even thus,All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! my lord!My lord, I say! Othello!

[Enter CASSIO]

How now, Cassio!

CASSIO:What's the matter?

IAGO:My lord is fall'n into an epilepsy:This is his second fit; he had one yesterday.

CASSIO:Rub him about the temples.

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IAGO:No, forbear;The lethargy must have his quiet course:If not, he foams at mouth and by and byBreaks out to savage madness. Look he stirs:Do you withdraw yourself a little while,He will recover straight: when he is gone,I would on great occasion speak with you.

[Exit CASSIO]

How is it, general? have you not hurt your head?

OTHELLO:Dost thou mock me?

IAGO:I mock you! no, by heaven.Would you would bear your fortune like a man!

OTHELLO:A horned man's a monster and a beast.

IAGO:There's many a beast then in a populous city,And many a civil monster.

OTHELLO:Did he confess it?

IAGOGood sir, be a man;Think every bearded fellow that's but yokedMay draw with you: there's millions now aliveThat nightly lie in those unproper bedsWhich they dare swear peculiar: your case is better.O, 'tis the spite of hell, the fiend's arch-mock,To lip a wanton in a secure couch,And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know;And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be.

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OTHELLOO, thou art wise; 'tis certain.

IAGOStand you awhile apart;Confine yourself but in a patient list.Whilst you were here o'erwhelmed with your grief--A passion most unsuiting such a man--Cassio came hither: I shifted him away,And laid good 'scuse upon your ecstasy,Bade him anon return and here speak with me;The which he promised. Do but encave yourself,And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns,That dwell in every region of his face;For I will make him tell the tale anew,Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and whenHe hath, and is again to cope your wife:I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience;Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen,And nothing of a man.

OTHELLO:Dost thou hear, Iago?I will be found most cunning in my patience;But--dost thou hear?--most bloody.

IAGO:That's not amiss;But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw?

[OTHELLO retires]

Now will I question Cassio of Bianca,A housewife that by selling her desiresBuys herself bread and clothes: it is a creatureThat dotes on Cassio; as 'tis the strumpet's plagueTo beguile many and be beguiled by one:He, when he hears of her, cannot refrainFrom the excess of laughter. Here he comes:

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[Re-enter CASSIO]

As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad;And his unbookish jealousy must construePoor Cassio's smiles, gestures and light behavior,Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant?

CASSIO:The worser that you give me the additionWhose want even kills me.

IAGO:Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on't.

[Speaking lower]

Now, if this suit lay in Bianco's power,How quickly should you speed!

CASSIO:Alas, poor caitiff!

OTHELLO:Look, how he laughs already!

IAGO:I never knew woman love man so.

CASSIO:Alas, poor rogue! I think, i' faith, she loves me.

OTHELLONow he denies it faintly, and laughs it out.

IAGO:Do you hear, Cassio?

OTHELLO:Now he importunes himTo tell it o'er: go to; well said, well said.

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IAGO:She gives it out that you shall marry hey:Do you intend it?

CASSIO:Ha, ha, ha!

OTHELLO:Do you triumph, Roman? do you triumph?

CASSIO:I marry her! what? a customer! Prithee, bear somecharity to my wit: do not think it so unwholesome.Ha, ha, ha!

OTHELLO:So, so, so, so: they laugh that win.

IAGO:'Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry her.

CASSIO:Prithee, say true.

IAGO:I am a very villain else.

OTHELLO:Have you scored me? Well.

CASSIO:This is the monkey's own giving out: she ispersuaded I will marry her, out of her own love andflattery, not out of my promise.

OTHELLO:Iago beckons me; now he begins the story.

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CASSIO:She was here even now; she haunts me in every place.I was the other day talking on the sea-bank withcertain Venetians; and thither comes the bauble,and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck—

OTHELLO:Crying 'O dear Cassio!' as it were: his gestureimports it.

CASSIO:So hangs, and lolls, and weeps upon me; so hales,and pulls me: ha, ha, ha!

OTHELLO:Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. O,I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shallthrow it to.

CASSIO:Well, I must leave her company.

IAGO:Before me! look, where she comes.

CASSIO:'Tis such another fitchew! marry a perfumed one.

[Enter BIANCA]

What do you mean by this haunting of me?

BIANCA:Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did youmean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now?I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out thework?--A likely piece of work, that you should findit in your chamber, and not know who left it there!This is some minx's token, and I must take out the

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work? There; give it your hobby-horse: wheresoeveryou had it, I'll take out no work on't.

CASSIO:How now, my sweet Bianca! how now! how now!

OTHELLO:By heaven, that should be my handkerchief!

BIANCA:An you'll come to supper to-night, you may; an youwill not, come when you are next prepared for.

[Exit]

IAGO:After her, after her.

CASSIO:'Faith, I must; she'll rail in the street else.

IAGO:Will you sup there?

CASSIO:'Faith, I intend so.

IAGOWell, I may chance to see you; for I would very fainspeak with you.

CASSIO:Prithee, come; will you?

IAGOGo to; say no more.

[Exit CASSIO]

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OTHELLO:[Advancing] How shall I murder him, Iago?

IAGO:Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice?

OTHELLO:O Iago!

IAGO:And did you see the handkerchief?

OTHELLO:Was that mine?

IAGO:Yours by this hand: and to see how he prizes thefoolish woman your wife! she gave it him, and hehath given it his whore.

OTHELLO:I would have him nine years a-killing.A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman!

IAGO:Nay, you must forget that.

OTHELLO:Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-night;for she shall not live: no, my heart is turned tostone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, theworld hath not a sweeter creature: she might lie byan emperor's side and command him tasks.

IAGO:Nay, that's not your way.

OTHELLO:Hang her! I do but say what she is: so delicatewith her needle: an admirable musician: O! she

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will sing the savageness out of a bear: of so highand plenteous wit and invention:--

IAGO:She's the worse for all this.

OTHELLO:O, a thousand thousand times: and then, of sogentle a condition!

IAGO:Ay, too gentle.

OTHELLO:Nay, that's certain: but yet the pity of it, Iago!O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!

IAGO:If you are so fond over her iniquity, give herpatent to offend; for, if it touch not you, it comesnear nobody.

OTHELLO:I will chop her into messes: cuckold me!

IAGO:O, 'tis foul in her.

OTHELLO:With mine officer!

IAGO:That's fouler.

OTHELLO:Get me some poison, Iago; this night: I'll notexpostulate with her, lest her body and beautyunprovide my mind again: this night, Iago.

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IAGO:Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, eventhe bed she hath contaminated.

OTHELLO:Good, good: the justice of it pleases: very good.

IAGO:And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker: youshall hear more by midnight.

OTHELLO:Excellent good.

[A trumpet within]

What trumpet is that same?

IAGO:Something from Venice, sure. 'Tis LodovicoCome from the duke: and, see, your wife is with him.

[Enter LODOVICO, DESDEMONA, and Attendants]

LODOVICO:Save you, worthy general!

OTHELLO:With all my heart, sir.

LODOVICO:The duke and senators of Venice greet you.

[Gives him a letter]

OTHELLO:I kiss the instrument of their pleasures.

[Opens the letter, and reads]

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DESDEMONA:And what's the news, good cousin Lodovico?

IAGO:I am very glad to see you, signiorWelcome to Cyprus.

LODOVICO:I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio?

IAGO:Lives, sir.

DESDEMONA:Cousin, there's fall'n between him and my lordAn unkind breach: but you shall make all well.

OTHELLO:Are you sure of that?

DESDEMONA:My lord?OTHELLO

[Reads] 'This fail you not to do, as you will--'

LODOVICO:He did not call; he's busy in the paper.Is there division 'twixt my lord and Cassio?

DESDEMONA:A most unhappy one: I would do muchTo atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio.

OTHELLO:Fire and brimstone!

DESDEMONA:My lord?

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OTHELLO:Are you wise?

DESDEMONA:What, is he angry?

LODOVICO:May be the letter moved him;For, as I think, they do command him home,Deputing Cassio in his government.

DESDEMONA:Trust me, I am glad on't.

OTHELLO:Indeed!

DESDEMONA:My lord?

OTHELLO:I am glad to see you mad.

DESDEMONA:Why, sweet Othello,--

OTHELLO[Striking her] Devil!

DESDEMONA:I have not deserved this.

LODOVICO:My lord, this would not be believed in Venice,Though I should swear I saw't: 'tis very much:Make her amends; she weeps.

OTHELLO:O devil, devil!If that the earth could teem with woman's tears,

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Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.Out of my sight!

DESDEMONA:I will not stay to offend you.

[Going]

LODOVICO:Truly, an obedient lady:I do beseech your lordship, call her back.

OTHELLO:Mistress!

DESDEMONA:My lord?

OTHELLOWhat would you with her, sir?

LODOVICO:Who, I, my lord?

OTHELLO:Ay; you did wish that I would make her turn:Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on,And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep;And she's obedient, as you say, obedient,Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears.Concerning this, sir,--O well-painted passion!--I am commanded home. Get you away;I'll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate,And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt!

[Exit DESDEMONA]

Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight,I do entreat that we may sup together:You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus.--Goats and monkeys!

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[Exit]

LODOVICO:Is this the noble Moor whom our full senateCall all in all sufficient? Is this the natureWhom passion could not shake? whose solid virtueThe shot of accident, nor dart of chance,Could neither graze nor pierce?

IAGO:He is much changed.

LODOVICO:Are his wits safe? is he not light of brain?

IAGO:He's that he is: I may not breathe my censureWhat he might be: if what he might he is not,I would to heaven he were!

LODOVICO:What, strike his wife!

IAGO:'Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knewThat stroke would prove the worst!

LODOVICO:Is it his use?Or did the letters work upon his blood,And new-create this fault?

IAGO:Alas, alas!It is not honesty in me to speakWhat I have seen and known. You shall observe him,And his own courses will denote him soThat I may save my speech: do but go after,And mark how he continues.

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LODOVICO:I am sorry that I am deceived in him.

[Exeunt]

SCENE II

A room in the castle

[Enter OTHELLO and EMILIA]

OTHELLO:You have seen nothing then?

EMILIA:Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect.

OTHELLO:Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together.

EMILIA:But then I saw no harm, and then I heardEach syllable that breath made up between them.

OTHELLO:What, did they never whisper?

EMILIANever, my lord.

OTHELLO:Nor send you out o' the way?

EMILIA:Never.

OTHELLO:To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing?

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EMILIA:Never, my lord.

OTHELLO:That's strange.

EMILIA:I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest,Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other,Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom.If any wretch have put this in your head,Let heaven requite it with the serpent's curse!For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true,There's no man happy; the purest of their wivesIs foul as slander.

OTHELLO:Bid her come hither: go.

[Exit EMILIA]

She says enough; yet she's a simple bawdThat cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore,A closet lock and key of villanous secretsAnd yet she'll kneel and pray; I have seen her do't.

[Enter DESDEMONA with EMILIA]

DESDEMONA:My lord, what is your will?

OTHELLO:Pray, chuck, come hither.

DESDEMONA:What is your pleasure?

OTHELLOLet me see your eyes;Look in my face.

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DESDEMONAWhat horrible fancy's this?

OTHELLO:[To EMILIA] Some of your function, mistress;Leave procreants alone and shut the door;Cough, or cry 'hem,' if any body come:Your mystery, your mystery: nay, dispatch.

[Exit EMILIA]

DESDEMONA:Upon my knees, what doth your speech import?I understand a fury in your words.But not the words.

OTHELLO:Why, what art thou?

DESDEMONA:Your wife, my lord; your trueAnd loyal wife.

OTHELLO:Come, swear it, damn thyselfLest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselvesShould fear to seize thee: therefore be double damn'd:Swear thou art honest.

DESDEMONA:Heaven doth truly know it.

OTHELLO:Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.

DESDEMONA:To whom, my lord? with whom? how am I false?

OTHELLO:O Desdemona! away! away! away!

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DESDEMONA:Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep?Am I the motive of these tears, my lord?If haply you my father do suspectAn instrument of this your calling back,Lay not your blame on me: If you have lost him,Why, I have lost him too.

OTHELLO:Had it pleased heavenTo try me with affliction; had they rain'dAll kinds of sores and shames on my bare head.Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips,Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes,I should have found in some place of my soulA drop of patience: but, alas, to make meA fixed figure for the time of scornTo point his slow unmoving finger at!Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:But there, where I have garner'd up my heart,Where either I must live, or bear no life;The fountain from the which my current runs,Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!Or keep it as a cistern for foul toadsTo knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there,Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin,--Ay, there, look grim as hell!

DESDEMONA:I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.

OTHELLO:O, ay; as summer flies are in the shambles,That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweetThat the sense aches at thee, would thou hadstne'er been born!

DESDEMONA:Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?

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OTHELLO:Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,Made to write 'whore' upon? What committed!Committed! O thou public commoner!I should make very forges of my cheeks,That would to cinders burn up modesty,Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed!Heaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks,The bawdy wind that kisses all it meetsIs hush'd within the hollow mine of earth,And will not hear it. What committed!Impudent strumpet!

DESDEMONA:By heaven, you do me wrong.

OTHELLO:Are you not a strumpet?

DESDEMONA:No, as I am a Christian:If to preserve this vessel for my lordFrom any other foul unlawful touchBe not to be a strumpet, I am none.

OTHELLO:What, not a whore?

DESDEMONA:No, as I shall be saved.

OTHELLO:Is't possible?

DESDEMONAO, heaven forgive us!

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OTHELLO:I cry you mercy, then:I took you for that cunning whore of VeniceThat married with Othello.

[Raising his voice]

You, mistress,That have the office opposite to Saint Peter,And keep the gate of hell!

[Re-enter EMILIA]

You, you, ay, you!We have done our course; there's money for your pains:I pray you, turn the key and keep our counsel.

[Exit]

EMILIA:Alas, what does this gentleman conceive?How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady?

DESDEMONA:'Faith, half asleep.

EMILIA:Good madam, what's the matter with my lord?

DESDEMONA:With who?

EMILIA:Why, with my lord, madam.

DESDEMONA:Who is thy lord?

EMILIA:He that is yours, sweet lady.

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DESDEMONA:I have none: do not talk to me, Emilia;I cannot weep; nor answer have I none,But what should go by water. Prithee, tonightLay on my bed my wedding sheets: remember;And call thy husband hither.

EMILIA:Here's a change indeed!

[Exit]

DESDEMONA:'Tis meet I should be used so, very meet.How have I been behaved, that he might stickThe small'st opinion on my least misuse?

[Re-enter EMILIA with IAGO]

IAGO:What is your pleasure, madam?How is't with you?

DESDEMONA:I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babesDo it with gentle means and easy tasks:He might have chid me so; for, in good faith,I am a child to chiding.

IAGO:What's the matter, lady?

EMILIA:Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her.Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,As true hearts cannot bear.

DESDEMONA:Am I that name, Iago?

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IAGO:What name, fair lady?

DESDEMONA:Such as she says my lord did say I was.

EMILIA:He call'd her whore: a beggar in his drinkCould not have laid such terms upon his callat.

IAGO:Why did he so?

DESDEMONA:I do not know; I am sure I am none such.

IAGO:Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day!

EMILIA:Hath she forsook so many noble matches,Her father and her country and her friends,To be call'd whore? would it not make one weep?

DESDEMONA:It is my wretched fortune.

IAGO:Beshrew him for't!How comes this trick upon him?

DESDEMONA:Nay, heaven doth know.

EMILIA:I will be hang'd, if some eternal villain,Some busy and insinuating rogue,Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office,Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else.

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IAGO:Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible.

DESDEMONA:If any such there be, heaven pardon him!

EMILIA:A halter pardon him! and hell gnaw his bones!Why should he call her whore? who keeps her company?What place? what time? what form? what likelihood?The Moor's abused by some most villanous knave,Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow.O heaven, that such companions thou'ldst unfold,And put in every honest hand a whipTo lash the rascals naked through the worldEven from the east to the west!

IAGO:Speak within door.

EMILIA:O, fie upon them! Some such squire he wasThat turn'd your wit the seamy side without,And made you to suspect me with the Moor.

IAGO:You are a fool; go to.

DESDEMONA:O good Iago,What shall I do to win my lord again?Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel:If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love,Either in discourse of thought or actual deed,Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,Delighted them in any other form;Or that I do not yet, and ever did.And ever will--though he do shake me offTo beggarly divorcement--love him dearly,

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Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much;And his unkindness may defeat my life,But never taint my love. I cannot say 'whore:'It does abhor me now I speak the word;To do the act that might the addition earnNot the world's mass of vanity could make me.

IAGO:I pray you, be content; 'tis but his humour:The business of the state does him offence,And he does chide with you.

DESDEMONA:If 'twere no other—

IAGO:'Tis but so, I warrant.

[Trumpets within]

Hark, how these instruments summon to supper!The messengers of Venice stay the meat;Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well.

[Exeunt DESDEMONA and EMILIA

Enter RODERIGO]

How now, Roderigo!

RODERIGO:I do not find that thou dealest justly with me.

IAGO:What in the contrary?

RODERIGO:Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago;and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from meall conveniency than suppliest me with the least

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advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endureit, nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace whatalready I have foolishly suffered.

IAGO:Will you hear me, Roderigo?

RODERIGO:'Faith, I have heard too much, for your words andperformances are no kin together.

IAGO:You charge me most unjustly.

RODERIGO:With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out ofmy means. The jewels you have had from me todeliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted avotarist: you have told me she hath received themand returned me expectations and comforts of suddenrespect and acquaintance, but I find none.

IAGO:Well; go to; very well.

RODERIGO:Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor 'tisnot very well: nay, I think it is scurvy, and beginto find myself fobbed in it.

IAGO:Very well.

RODERIGO:I tell you 'tis not very well. I will make myselfknown to Desdemona: if she will return me myjewels, I will give over my suit and repent myunlawful solicitation; if not, assure yourself Iwill seek satisfaction of you.

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IAGO:You have said now.

RODERIGO:Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing.

IAGO:Why, now I see there's mettle in thee, and even fromthis instant to build on thee a better opinion thanever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo: thou hasttaken against me a most just exception; but yet, Iprotest, I have dealt most directly in thy affair.

RODERIGO:It hath not appeared.

IAGO:I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and yoursuspicion is not without wit and judgment. But,Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which Ihave greater reason to believe now than ever, I meanpurpose, courage and valour, this night show it: ifthou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona,take me from this world with treachery and deviseengines for my life.

RODERIGO:Well, what is it? is it within reason and compass?

IAGO:Sir, there is especial commission come from Veniceto depute Cassio in Othello's place.

RODERIGO:Is that true? why, then Othello and Desdemonareturn again to Venice.

IAGO:O, no; he goes into Mauritania and takes away withhim the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be

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lingered here by some accident: wherein none can beso determinate as the removing of Cassio.

RODERIGO:How do you mean, removing of him?

IAGO:Why, by making him uncapable of Othello's place;knocking out his brains.

RODERIGO:And that you would have me to do?

IAGO:Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right.He sups to-night with a harlotry, and thither will Igo to him: he knows not yet of his horrorablefortune. If you will watch his going thence, whichI will fashion to fall out between twelve and one,you may take him at your pleasure: I will be nearto second your attempt, and he shall fall betweenus. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along withme; I will show you such a necessity in his deaththat you shall think yourself bound to put it onhim. It is now high suppertime, and the night growsto waste: about it.

RODERIGO:I will hear further reason for this.

IAGO:And you shall be satisfied.

[Exeunt]

SCENE III

Another room in the castle

Enter OTHELLO, LODOVICO, DESDEMONA, EMILIA and Attendants

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LODOVICO:I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no further.

OTHELLO:O, pardon me: 'twill do me good to walk.

LODOVICO:Madam, good night; I humbly thank your ladyship.

DESDEMONA:Your honour is most welcome.

OTHELLO:Will you walk, sir?O,--Desdemona,--

DESDEMONA:My lord?

OTHELLO:Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returnedforthwith: dismiss your attendant there: look it be done.

DESDEMONA:I will, my lord.

[Exeunt OTHELLO, LODOVICO, and Attendants]

EMILIA:How goes it now? he looks gentler than he did.

DESDEMONA:He says he will return incontinent:He hath commanded me to go to bed,And bade me to dismiss you.

EMILIA:Dismiss me!

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DESDEMONA:

It was his bidding: therefore, good Emilia,.Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu:We must not now displease him.

EMILIA:I would you had never seen him!

DESDEMONA:So would not I my love doth so approve him,That even his stubbornness, his cheques, his frowns--Prithee, unpin me,--have grace and favour in them.

EMILIA:I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.

DESDEMONA:All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds!If I do die before thee prithee, shroud meIn one of those same sheets.

EMILIA:Come, come you talk.

DESDEMONA:My mother had a maid call'd Barbara:She was in love, and he she loved proved madAnd did forsake her: she had a song of 'willow;'An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,And she died singing it: that song to-nightWill not go from my mind; I have much to do,But to go hang my head all at one side,And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch.

EMILIA:Shall I go fetch your night-gown?

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DESDEMONANo, unpin me here.This Lodovico is a proper man.

EMILIA:A very handsome man.

DESDEMONA:He speaks well.

EMILIA:I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefootto Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.

DESDEMONA:[Singing] The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow:Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,Sing willow, willow, willow:The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans;Sing willow, willow, willow;Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;Lay by these:--

[Singing]

Sing willow, willow, willow;Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon:--

[Singing]

Sing all a green willow must be my garland.Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve,-Nay, that's not next.--Hark! who is't that knocks?

EMILIA:It's the wind.

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DESDEMONA:[Singing] I call'd my love false love; but whatsaid he then?Sing willow, willow, willow:If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men!So, get thee gone; good night Ate eyes do itch;Doth that bode weeping?

EMILIA:'Tis neither here nor there.

DESDEMONA:I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men!Dost thou in conscience think,--tell me, Emilia,--That there be women do abuse their husbandsIn such gross kind?

EMILIA:There be some such, no question.

DESDEMONA:Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?

EMILIA:Why, would not you?

DESDEMONANo, by this heavenly light!

EMILIA:Nor I neither by this heavenly light;I might do't as well i' the dark.

DESDEMONA:Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?

EMILIA:The world's a huge thing: it is a great price.For a small vice.

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DESDEMONA:In troth, I think thou wouldst not.

EMILIA:In troth, I think I should; and undo't when I haddone. Marry, I would not do such a thing for ajoint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, nor forgowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any pettyexhibition; but for the whole world,--why, who wouldnot make her husband a cuckold to make him amonarch? I should venture purgatory for't.

DESDEMONA:Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrongFor the whole world.

EMILIA:Why the wrong is but a wrong i' the world: andhaving the world for your labour, tis a wrong in yourown world, and you might quickly make it right.

DESDEMONAI do not think there is any such woman.

EMILIA:Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage as wouldstore the world they played for.But I do think it is their husbands' faultsIf wives do fall: say that they slack their duties,And pour our treasures into foreign laps,Or else break out in peevish jealousies,Throwing restraint upon us; or say they strike us,Or scant our former having in despite;Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace,Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands knowTheir wives have sense like them: they see and smellAnd have their palates both for sweet and sour,As husbands have. What is it that they doWhen they change us for others? Is it sport?I think it is: and doth affection breed it?

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I think it doth: is't frailty that thus errs?It is so too: and have not we affections,Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?Then let them use us well: else let them know,The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.

DESDEMONA:Good night, good night: heaven me such uses send,Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend!

[Exeunt]

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from The Life and Death of Richard the Third

by William Shakespeare

ACT I

SCENE I

London. A street.

[Enter GLOUCESTER, solus]

GLOUCESTER:Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this sun of York;And all the clouds that lour'd upon our houseIn the deep bosom of the ocean buried.Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;And now, instead of mounting barded steedsTo fright the souls of fearful adversaries,He capers nimbly in a lady's chamberTo the lascivious pleasing of a lute.But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majestyTo strut before a wanton ambling nymph;I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my timeInto this breathing world, scarce half made up,And that so lamely and unfashionableThat dogs bark at me as I halt by them;Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

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Have no delight to pass away the time,Unless to spy my shadow in the sunAnd descant on mine own deformity:And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,To entertain these fair well-spoken days,I am determined to prove a villainAnd hate the idle pleasures of these days.Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,To set my brother Clarence and the kingIn deadly hate the one against the other:And if King Edward be as true and justAs I am subtle, false and treacherous,This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,About a prophecy, which says that 'G'Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be.Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: hereClarence comes.

[Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY]

Brother, good day; what means this armed guardThat waits upon your grace?

CLARENCE:His majestyTendering my person's safety, hath appointedThis conduct to convey me to the Tower.

GLOUCESTER:Upon what cause?

CLARENCE:Because my name is George.

GLOUCESTER:Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours;He should, for that, commit your godfathers:O, belike his majesty hath some intent

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That you shall be new-christen'd in the Tower.But what's the matter, Clarence? may I know?

CLARENCE:Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protestAs yet I do not: but, as I can learn,He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;And from the cross-row plucks the letter G.And says a wizard told him that by GHis issue disinherited should be;And, for my name of George begins with G,It follows in his thought that I am he.These, as I learn, and such like toys as theseHave moved his highness to commit me now.

GLOUCESTER:Why, this it is, when men are ruled by women:'Tis not the king that sends you to the Tower:My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, 'tis sheThat tempers him to this extremity.Was it not she and that good man of worship,Anthony Woodville, her brother there,That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,From whence this present day he is deliver'd?We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe.

CLARENCE:By heaven, I think there's no man is secureBut the queen's kindred and night-walking heraldsThat trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.Heard ye not what an humble suppliantLord hastings was to her for his delivery?

GLOUCESTER:Humbly complaining to her deityGot my lord chamberlain his liberty.I'll tell you what; I think it is our way,If we will keep in favour with the king,To be her men and wear her livery:The jealous o'erworn widow and herself,

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Since that our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen.Are mighty gossips in this monarchy.

BRAKENBURY:I beseech your graces both to pardon me;His majesty hath straitly given in chargeThat no man shall have private conference,Of what degree soever, with his brother.

GLOUCESTER:Even so; an't please your worship, Brakenbury,You may partake of any thing we say:We speak no treason, man: we say the kingIs wise and virtuous, and his noble queenWell struck in years, fair, and not jealous;We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot,A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue;And that the queen's kindred are made gentle-folks:How say you sir? Can you deny all this?

BRAKENBURY:With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.

GLOUCESTER:Naught to do with mistress Shore! I tell thee, fellow,He that doth naught with her, excepting one,Were best he do it secretly, alone.

BRAKENBURY:What one, my lord?

GLOUCESTER:Her husband, knave: wouldst thou betray me?

BRAKENBURY:I beseech your grace to pardon me, and withalForbear your conference with the noble duke.

CLARENCE:We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.

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GLOUCESTER:We are the queen's abjects, and must obey.Brother, farewell: I will unto the king;And whatsoever you will employ me in,Were it to call King Edward's widow sister,I will perform it to enfranchise you.Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhoodTouches me deeper than you can imagine.

CLARENCE:I know it pleaseth neither of us well.

GLOUCESTER:Well, your imprisonment shall not be long;Meantime, have patience.

CLARENCE:I must perforce. Farewell.

[Exeunt CLARENCE, BRAKENBURY, and Guard]

GLOUCESTER:Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return.Simple, plain Clarence! I do love thee so,That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,If heaven will take the present at our hands.But who comes here? the new-deliver'd Hastings?

[Enter HASTINGS]

HASTINGS:Good time of day unto my gracious lord!

GLOUCESTER:As much unto my good lord chamberlain!Well are you welcome to the open air.How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment?

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HASTINGS:With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must:But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanksThat were the cause of my imprisonment.

GLOUCESTER:No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too;For they that were your enemies are his,And have prevail'd as much on him as you.

HASTINGS:More pity that the eagle should be mew'd,While kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

GLOUCESTER:What news abroad?

HASTINGS:No news so bad abroad as this at home;The King is sickly, weak and melancholy,And his physicians fear him mightily.

GLOUCESTER:Now, by Saint Paul, this news is bad indeed.O, he hath kept an evil diet long,And overmuch consumed his royal person:'Tis very grievous to be thought upon.What, is he in his bed?

HASTINGS:He is.

GLOUCESTER:Go you before, and I will follow you.

[Exit HASTINGS]

He cannot live, I hope; and must not dieTill George be pack'd with post-horse up to heaven.I'll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence,

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With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments;And, if I fall not in my deep intent,Clarence hath not another day to live:Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,And leave the world for me to bustle in!For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter.What though I kill'd her husband and her father?The readiest way to make the wench amendsIs to become her husband and her father:The which will I; not all so much for loveAs for another secret close intent,By marrying her which I must reach unto.But yet I run before my horse to market:Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns:When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

[Exit]

SCENE II

The same. Another street.

[Enter the corpse of KING HENRY the Sixth, Gentlemen with halberds to guard it; LADY ANNE being the mourner]

LADY ANNE:Set down, set down your honourable load,If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,Whilst I awhile obsequiously lamentThe untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.Poor key-cold figure of a holy king!Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost,To hear the lamentations of Poor Anne,Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son,Stabb'd by the selfsame hand that made these wounds!Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life,I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes.Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes!

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Cursed be the heart that had the heart to do it!Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!More direful hap betide that hated wretch,That makes us wretched by the death of thee,Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives!If ever he have child, abortive be it,Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,Whose ugly and unnatural aspectMay fright the hopeful mother at the view;And that be heir to his unhappiness!If ever he have wife, let her he madeA miserable by the death of himAs I am made by my poor lord and thee!Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load,Taken from Paul's to be interred there;And still, as you are weary of the weight,Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse.

[Enter GLOUCESTER]

GLOUCESTER:Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down.

LADY ANNE:What black magician conjures up this fiend,To stop devoted charitable deeds?

GLOUCESTER:Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,I'll make a corse of him that disobeys.

Gentleman:My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

GLOUCESTER:Unmanner'd dog! stand thou, when I command:Advance thy halbert higher than my breast,Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot,And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.

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LADY ANNE:What, do you tremble? are you all afraid?Alas, I blame you not; for you are mortal,And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,His soul thou canst not have; therefore be gone.

GLOUCESTER:Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.

LADY ANNE:Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not;For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims.If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.O, gentlemen, see, see! dead Henry's woundsOpen their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh!Blush, Blush, thou lump of foul deformity;For 'tis thy presence that exhales this bloodFrom cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells;Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural,Provokes this deluge most unnatural.O God, which this blood madest, revenge his death!O earth, which this blood drink'st revenge his death!Either heaven with lightning strike themurderer dead,Or earth, gape open wide and eat him quick,As thou dost swallow up this good king's bloodWhich his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered!

GLOUCESTER:Lady, you know no rules of charity,Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.

LADY ANNE:Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man:No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.

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GLOUCESTER:But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

LADY ANNE:O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!

GLOUCESTER:More wonderful, when angels are so angry.Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,Of these supposed-evils, to give me leave,By circumstance, but to acquit myself.

LADY ANNE:Vouchsafe, defused infection of a man,For these known evils, but to give me leave,By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self.

GLOUCESTER:Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me haveSome patient leisure to excuse myself.

LADY ANNE:Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst makeNo excuse current, but to hang thyself.

GLOUCESTER:By such despair, I should accuse myself.

LADY ANNE:And, by despairing, shouldst thou stand excused;For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,Which didst unworthy slaughter upon others.

GLOUCESTER:Say that I slew them not?

LADY ANNE:Why, then they are not dead:But dead they are, and devilish slave, by thee.

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GLOUCESTER:I did not kill your husband.

LADY ANNE:Why, then he is alive.

GLOUCESTER:Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward's hand.

LADY ANNE:In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret sawThy murderous falchion smoking in his blood;The which thou once didst bend against her breast,But that thy brothers beat aside the point.

GLOUCESTER:I was provoked by her slanderous tongue,which laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.

LADY ANNE:Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind.Which never dreamt on aught but butcheries:Didst thou not kill this king?

GLOUCESTER:I grant ye.

LADY ANNE:Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant me tooThou mayst be damned for that wicked deed!O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous!

GLOUCESTER:The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him.

LADY ANNE:He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.

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GLOUCESTER:Let him thank me, that holp to send him thither;For he was fitter for that place than earth.

LADY ANNE:And thou unfit for any place but hell.

GLOUCESTER:Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.

LADY ANNE:Some dungeon.

GLOUCESTER:Your bed-chamber.

LADY ANNE:Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest!

GLOUCESTER:So will it, madam till I lie with you.

LADY ANNE:I hope so.

GLOUCESTER:I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne,To leave this keen encounter of our wits,And fall somewhat into a slower method,Is not the causer of the timeless deathsOf these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,As blameful as the executioner?

LADY ANNE:Thou art the cause, and most accursed effect.

GLOUCESTER:Your beauty was the cause of that effect;Your beauty: which did haunt me in my sleep

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To undertake the death of all the world,So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.

LADY ANNE:If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide,These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks.

GLOUCESTER:These eyes could never endure sweet beauty's wreck;You should not blemish it, if I stood by:As all the world is cheered by the sun,So I by that; it is my day, my life.

LADY ANNE:Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life!

GLOUCESTER:Curse not thyself, fair creature thou art both.

LADY ANNE:I would I were, to be revenged on thee.

GLOUCESTER:It is a quarrel most unnatural,To be revenged on him that loveth you.

LADY ANNE:It is a quarrel just and reasonable,To be revenged on him that slew my husband.

GLOUCESTER:He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,Did it to help thee to a better husband.

LADY ANNE:His better doth not breathe upon the earth.

GLOUCESTER:He lives that loves thee better than he could.

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LADY ANNE:Name him.

GLOUCESTER:Plantagenet.

LADY ANNE:Why, that was he.

GLOUCESTER:The selfsame name, but one of better nature.

LADY ANNE:Where is he?

GLOUCESTER:Here.

[She spitteth at him]

Why dost thou spit at me?

LADY ANNE:Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!

GLOUCESTER:Never came poison from so sweet a place.

LADY ANNE:Never hung poison on a fouler toad.Out of my sight! thou dost infect my eyes.

GLOUCESTER:Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.

LADY ANNE:Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead!

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GLOUCESTER:I would they were, that I might die at once;For now they kill me with a living death.Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,Shamed their aspect with store of childish drops:These eyes that never shed remorseful tear,No, when my father York and Edward wept,To hear the piteous moan that Rutland madeWhen black-faced Clifford shook his sword at him;Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,Told the sad story of my father's death,And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,That all the standers-by had wet their cheeksLike trees bedash'd with rain: in that sad timeMy manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;And what these sorrows could not thence exhale,Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.I never sued to friend nor enemy;My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word;But now thy beauty is proposed my fee,My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.

[She looks scornfully at him]

Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were madeFor kissing, lady, not for such contempt.If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,Lo, here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword;Which if thou please to hide in this true bosom.And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,I lay it naked to the deadly stroke,And humbly beg the death upon my knee.

[He lays his breast open: she offers at it with his sword]

Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry,But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me.Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward,But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on.

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[Here she lets fall the sword]

Take up the sword again, or take up me.

LADY ANNE:Arise, dissembler: though I wish thy death,I will not be the executioner.

GLOUCESTER:Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.

LADY ANNE:I have already.

GLOUCESTERTush, that was in thy rage:Speak it again, and, even with the word,That hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love,Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love;To both their deaths thou shalt be accessary.

LADY ANNE:I would I knew thy heart.

GLOUCESTER:'Tis figured in my tongue.

LADY ANNE:I fear me both are false.

GLOUCESTER:Then never man was true.

LADY ANNE:Well, well, put up your sword.

GLOUCESTER:Say, then, my peace is made.

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LADY ANNE:That shall you know hereafter.

GLOUCESTER:But shall I live in hope?

LADY ANNE:All men, I hope, live so.

GLOUCESTER:Vouchsafe to wear this ring.

LADY ANNE:To take is not to give.

GLOUCESTER:Look, how this ring encompasseth finger.Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.And if thy poor devoted suppliant mayBut beg one favour at thy gracious hand,Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

LADY ANNE:What is it?

GLOUCESTER:That it would please thee leave these sad designsTo him that hath more cause to be a mourner,And presently repair to Crosby Place;Where, after I have solemnly interr'dAt Chertsey monastery this noble king,And wet his grave with my repentant tears,I will with all expedient duty see you:For divers unknown reasons. I beseech you,Grant me this boon.

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LADY ANNE:With all my heart; and much it joys me too,To see you are become so penitent.Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me.

GLOUCESTER:Bid me farewell.

LADY ANNE:'Tis more than you deserve;But since you teach me how to flatter you,Imagine I have said farewell already.

[Exeunt LADY ANNE, TRESSEL, and BERKELEY]

GLOUCESTER:Sirs, take up the corse.

GENTLEMEN:Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

GLOUCESTER:No, to White-Friars; there attend my coining.

[Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER]

Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?Was ever woman in this humour won?I'll have her; but I will not keep her long.What! I, that kill'd her husband and his father,To take her in her heart's extremest hate,With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,The bleeding witness of her hatred by;Having God, her conscience, and these barsagainst me,And I nothing to back my suit at all,But the plain devil and dissembling looks,And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!Ha!Hath she forgot already that brave prince,

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Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury?A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,Framed in the prodigality of nature,Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,The spacious world cannot again affordAnd will she yet debase her eyes on me,That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince,And made her widow to a woful bed?On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety?On me, that halt and am unshapen thus?My dukedom to a beggarly denier,I do mistake my person all this while:Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,Myself to be a marvellous proper man.I'll be at charges for a looking-glass,And entertain some score or two of tailors,To study fashions to adorn my body:Since I am crept in favour with myself,Will maintain it with some little cost.But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave;And then return lamenting to my love.Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,That I may see my shadow as I pass.

[Exit]

SCENE III

The palace

[Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, RIVERS, and GREY]

RIVERS:Have patience, madam: there's no doubt his majestyWill soon recover his accustom'd health.

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GREY:In that you brook it in, it makes him worse:Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort,And cheer his grace with quick and merry words.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:If he were dead, what would betide of me?

RIVERS:No other harm but loss of such a lord.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:The loss of such a lord includes all harm.

GREY:The heavens have bless'd you with a goodly son,To be your comforter when he is gone.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:Oh, he is young and his minorityIs put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester,A man that loves not me, nor none of you.

RIVERS:Is it concluded that he shall be protector?

QUEEN ELIZABETH:It is determined, not concluded yet:But so it must be, if the king miscarry.

[Enter BUCKINGHAM and DERBY]

GREY:Here come the lords of Buckingham and Derby.

BUCKINGHAM:Good time of day unto your royal grace!

DERBY:God make your majesty joyful as you have been!

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QUEEN ELIZABETH:The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby.To your good prayers will scarcely say amen.Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she's your wife,And loves not me, be you, good lord, assuredI hate not you for her proud arrogance.

DERBY:I do beseech you, either not believeThe envious slanders of her false accusers;Or, if she be accused in true report,Bear with her weakness, which, I think proceedsFrom wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.

RIVERS:Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Derby?

DERBYBut now the Duke of Buckingham and IAre come from visiting his majesty.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:What likelihood of his amendment, lords?

BUCKINGHAM:Madam, good hope; his grace speaks cheerfully.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:God grant him health! Did you confer with him?

BUCKINGHAM:Madam, we did: he desires to make atonementBetwixt the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers,And betwixt them and my lord chamberlain;And sent to warn them to his royal presence.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:Would all were well! but that will never beI fear our happiness is at the highest.

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[Enter GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and DORSET]

GLOUCESTER:They do me wrong, and I will not endure it:Who are they that complain unto the king,That I, forsooth, am stern, and love them not?By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightlyThat fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.Because I cannot flatter and speak fair,Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive and cog,Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,I must be held a rancorous enemy.Cannot a plain man live and think no harm,But thus his simple truth must be abusedBy silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

RIVERS:To whom in all this presence speaks your grace?

GLOUCESTER:To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace.When have I injured thee? when done thee wrong?Or thee? or thee? or any of your faction?A plague upon you all! His royal person,--Whom God preserve better than you would wish!--Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while,But you must trouble him with lewd complaints.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.The king, of his own royal disposition,And not provoked by any suitor else;Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred,Which in your outward actions shows itselfAgainst my kindred, brothers, and myself,Makes him to send; that thereby he may gatherThe ground of your ill-will, and so remove it.

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GLOUCESTER:I cannot tell: the world is grown so bad,That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch:Since every Jack became a gentlemanThere's many a gentle person made a Jack.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:Come, come, we know your meaning, brotherGloucester;You envy my advancement and my friends':God grant we never may have need of you!

GLOUCESTER:Meantime, God grants that we have need of you:Your brother is imprison'd by your means,Myself disgraced, and the nobilityHeld in contempt; whilst many fair promotionsAre daily given to ennoble thoseThat scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:By Him that raised me to this careful heightFrom that contented hap which I enjoy'd,I never did incense his majestyAgainst the Duke of Clarence, but have beenAn earnest advocate to plead for him.My lord, you do me shameful injury,Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

GLOUCESTER:You may deny that you were not the causeOf my Lord Hastings' late imprisonment.

RIVERS:She may, my lord, for—

GLOUCESTER:She may, Lord Rivers! why, who knows not so?She may do more, sir, than denying that:She may help you to many fair preferments,

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And then deny her aiding hand therein,And lay those honours on your high deserts.What may she not? She may, yea, marry, may she—

RIVERS:What, marry, may she?

GLOUCESTER:What, marry, may she! marry with a king,A bachelor, a handsome stripling too:I wis your grandam had a worser match.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borneYour blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs:By heaven, I will acquaint his majestyWith those gross taunts I often have endured.I had rather be a country servant-maidThan a great queen, with this condition,To be thus taunted, scorn'd, and baited at:

[Enter QUEEN MARGARET, behind]

Small joy have I in being England's queen.

QUEEN MARGARET:And lessen'd be that small, God, I beseech thee!Thy honour, state and seat is due to me.

GLOUCESTER:What! threat you me with telling of the king?Tell him, and spare not: look, what I have saidI will avouch in presence of the king:I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower.'Tis time to speak; my pains are quite forgot.

QUEEN MARGARET:Out, devil! I remember them too well:Thou slewest my husband Henry in the Tower,And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury.

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GLOUCESTER:Ere you were queen, yea, or your husband king,I was a pack-horse in his great affairs;A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,A liberal rewarder of his friends:To royalize his blood I spilt mine own.

QUEEN MARGARET:Yea, and much better blood than his or thine.

GLOUCESTER:In all which time you and your husband GreyWere factious for the house of Lancaster;And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husbandIn Margaret's battle at Saint Alban's slain?Let me put in your minds, if you forget,What you have been ere now, and what you are;Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

QUEEN MARGARET:A murderous villain, and so still thou art.

GLOUCESTER:Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick;Yea, and forswore himself,--which Jesu pardon!—

QUEEN MARGARET:Which God revenge!

GLOUCESTER:To fight on Edward's party for the crown;And for his meed, poor lord, he is mew'd up.I would to God my heart were flint, like Edward's;Or Edward's soft and pitiful, like mineI am too childish-foolish for this world.

QUEEN MARGARET:Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave the world,Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is.

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RIVERS:My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy daysWhich here you urge to prove us enemies,We follow'd then our lord, our lawful king:So should we you, if you should be our king.

GLOUCESTER:If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar:Far be it from my heart, the thought of it!

QUEEN ELIZABETH:As little joy, my lord, as you supposeYou should enjoy, were you this country's king,As little joy may you suppose in me.That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.

QUEEN MARGARET:A little joy enjoys the queen thereof;For I am she, and altogether joyless.I can no longer hold me patient.

[Advancing]

Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall outIn sharing that which you have pill'd from me!Which of you trembles not that looks on me?If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects,Yet that, by you deposed, you quake like rebels?O gentle villain, do not turn away!

GLOUCESTER:Foul wrinkled witch, what makest thou in my sight?

QUEEN MARGARET:But repetition of what thou hast marr'd;That will I make before I let thee go.

GLOUCESTER:Wert thou not banished on pain of death?

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QUEEN MARGARET:I was; but I do find more pain in banishmentThan death can yield me here by my abode.A husband and a son thou owest to me;And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance:The sorrow that I have, by right is yours,And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.

GLOUCESTER:The curse my noble father laid on thee,When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paperAnd with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes,And then, to dry them, gavest the duke a cloutSteep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland--His curses, then from bitterness of soulDenounced against thee, are all fall'n upon thee;And God, not we, hath plagued thy bloody deed.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:So just is God, to right the innocent.

HASTINGS:O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe,And the most merciless that e'er was heard of!

RIVERS:Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.

DORSET:No man but prophesied revenge for it.

BUCKINGHAM:Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.

QUEEN MARGARET:What were you snarling all before I came,Ready to catch each other by the throat,And turn you all your hatred now on me?Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven?That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death,

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Their kingdom's loss, my woful banishment,Could all but answer for that peevish brat?Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven?Why, then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!If not by war, by surfeit die your king,As ours by murder, to make him a king!Edward thy son, which now is Prince of Wales,For Edward my son, which was Prince of Wales,Die in his youth by like untimely violence!Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!Long mayst thou live to wail thy children's loss;And see another, as I see thee now,Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine!Long die thy happy days before thy death;And, after many lengthen'd hours of grief,Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen!Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by,And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my sonWas stabb'd with bloody daggers: God, I pray him,That none of you may live your natural age,But by some unlook'd accident cut off!

GLOUCESTER:Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd hag!

QUEEN MARGARET:And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me.If heaven have any grievous plague in storeExceeding those that I can wish upon thee,O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe,And then hurl down their indignationOn thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace!The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul!Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest,And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine,Unless it be whilst some tormenting dreamAffrights thee with a hell of ugly devils!Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog!

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Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativityThe slave of nature and the son of hell!Thou slander of thy mother's heavy womb!Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins!Thou rag of honour! thou detested—

GLOUCESTER:Margaret.

QUEEN MARGARET:Richard!

GLOUCESTER:Ha!

QUEEN MARGARET:I call thee not.

GLOUCESTER:I cry thee mercy then, for I had thoughtThat thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names.

QUEEN MARGARET:Why, so I did; but look'd for no reply.O, let me make the period to my curse!

GLOUCESTER:'Tis done by me, and ends in 'Margaret.'

QUEEN ELIZABETH:Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself.

QUEEN MARGARET:Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune!Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider,Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about?Fool, fool! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself.The time will come when thou shalt wish for meTo help thee curse that poisonous bunchback'd toad.

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HASTINGS:False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.

QUEEN MARGARET:Foul shame upon you! you have all moved mine.

RIVERS:Were you well served, you would be taught your duty.

QUEEN MARGARET:To serve me well, you all should do me duty,Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects:O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty!

DORSET:Dispute not with her; she is lunatic.

QUEEN MARGARET:Peace, master marquess, you are malapert:Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.O, that your young nobility could judgeWhat 'twere to lose it, and be miserable!They that stand high have many blasts to shake them;And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces.

GLOUCESTER:Good counsel, marry: learn it, learn it, marquess.

DORSET:It toucheth you, my lord, as much as me.

GLOUCESTER:Yea, and much more: but I was born so high,Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top,And dallies with the wind and scorns the sun.

QUEEN MARGARET:And turns the sun to shade; alas! alas!Witness my son, now in the shade of death;

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Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrathHath in eternal darkness folded up.Your aery buildeth in our aery's nest.O God, that seest it, do not suffer it!As it was won with blood, lost be it so!

BUCKINGHAM:Have done! for shame, if not for charity.

QUEEN MARGARET:Urge neither charity nor shame to me:Uncharitably with me have you dealt,And shamefully by you my hopes are butcher'd.My charity is outrage, life my shameAnd in that shame still live my sorrow's rage.

BUCKINGHAM:Have done, have done.

QUEEN MARGARET:O princely Buckingham I'll kiss thy hand,In sign of league and amity with thee:Now fair befal thee and thy noble house!Thy garments are not spotted with our blood,Nor thou within the compass of my curse.

BUCKINGHAM:Nor no one here; for curses never passThe lips of those that breathe them in the air.

QUEEN MARGARET:I'll not believe but they ascend the sky,And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace.O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog!Look, when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites,His venom tooth will rankle to the death:Have not to do with him, beware of him;Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him,And all their ministers attend on him.

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GLOUCESTER:What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?

BUCKINGHAM:Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.

QUEEN MARGARET:What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel?And soothe the devil that I warn thee from?O, but remember this another day,When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow,And say poor Margaret was a prophetess!Live each of you the subjects to his hate,And he to yours, and all of you to God's!

[Exit]

HASTINGS:My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses.

RIVERS:And so doth mine: I muse why she's at liberty.

GLOUCESTER:I cannot blame her: by God's holy mother,She hath had too much wrong; and I repentMy part thereof that I have done to her.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:I never did her any, to my knowledge.

GLOUCESTER:But you have all the vantage of her wrong.I was too hot to do somebody good,That is too cold in thinking of it now.Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid,He is frank'd up to fatting for his painsGod pardon them that are the cause of it!

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RIVERS:A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,To pray for them that have done scathe to us.

GLOUCESTER:So do I ever:

[Aside]

being well-advised.For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself.

[Enter CATESBY]

CATESBY:Madam, his majesty doth call for you,And for your grace; and you, my noble lords.

QUEEN ELIZABETH:Catesby, we come. Lords, will you go with us?

RIVERS:Madam, we will attend your grace.

[Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER]

GLOUCESTER:I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.The secret mischiefs that I set abroachI lay unto the grievous charge of others.Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness,I do beweep to many simple gullsNamely, to Hastings, Derby, Buckingham;And say it is the queen and her alliesThat stir the king against the duke my brother.Now, they believe it; and withal whet meTo be revenged on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey:But then I sigh; and, with a piece of scripture,Tell them that God bids us do good for evil:And thus I clothe my naked villany

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With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ;And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

[Enter two Murderers]

But, soft! here come my executioners.How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates!Are you now going to dispatch this deed?

First Murderer:We are, my lord; and come to have the warrantThat we may be admitted where he is.

GLOUCESTER:Well thought upon; I have it here about me.

[Gives the warrant]

When you have done, repair to Crosby Place.But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead;For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhapsMay move your hearts to pity if you mark him.

First Murderer:Tush!Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate;Talkers are no good doers: be assuredWe come to use our hands and not our tongues.

GLOUCESTER:Your eyes drop millstones, when fools' eyes drop tears:I like you, lads; about your business straight;Go, go, dispatch.

First Murderer:We will, my noble lord.

[Exeunt]

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SCENE IV

London. The Tower.

[Enter CLARENCE and BRAKENBURY]

BRAKENBURY:Why looks your grace so heavily today?

CLARENCE:O, I have pass'd a miserable night,So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,That, as I am a Christian faithful man,I would not spend another such a night,Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days,So full of dismal terror was the time!

BRAKENBURY:What was your dream? I long to hear you tell it.

CLARENCE:Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower,And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy;And, in my company, my brother Gloucester;Who from my cabin tempted me to walkUpon the hatches: thence we looked toward England,And cited up a thousand fearful times,During the wars of York and LancasterThat had befall'n us. As we paced alongUpon the giddy footing of the hatches,Methought that Gloucester stumbled; and, in falling,Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,Into the tumbling billows of the main.Lord, Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;Ten thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon;Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

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All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea:Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holesWhere eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,Which woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

BRAKENBURY:Had you such leisure in the time of deathTo gaze upon the secrets of the deep?

CLARENCE:Methought I had; and often did I striveTo yield the ghost: but still the envious floodKept in my soul, and would not let it forthTo seek the empty, vast and wandering air;But smother'd it within my panting bulk,Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

BRAKENBURY:Awaked you not with this sore agony?

CLARENCE:O, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life;O, then began the tempest to my soul,Who pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,With that grim ferryman which poets write of,Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.The first that there did greet my stranger soul,Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;Who cried aloud, 'What scourge for perjuryCan this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?'And so he vanish'd: then came wandering byA shadow like an angel, with bright hairDabbled in blood; and he squeak'd out aloud,'Clarence is come; false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!'With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiendsEnviron'd me about, and howled in mine ears

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Such hideous cries, that with the very noiseI trembling waked, and for a season afterCould not believe but that I was in hell,Such terrible impression made the dream.

BRAKENBURY:No marvel, my lord, though it affrighted you;I promise, I am afraid to hear you tell it.

CLARENCE:O Brakenbury, I have done those things,Which now bear evidence against my soul,For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,Yet execute thy wrath in me alone,O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

BRAKENBURY:I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest!

[CLARENCE sleeps]

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.Princes have but their tides for their glories,An outward honour for an inward toil;And, for unfelt imagination,They often feel a world of restless cares:So that, betwixt their tides and low names,There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

[Enter the two Murderers]

First Murderer:Ho! who's here?

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BRAKENBURY:In God's name what are you, and how came you hither?

First Murderer:I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.

BRAKENBURY:Yea, are you so brief?

Second Murderer:O sir, it is better to be brief than tedious. Showhim our commission; talk no more.

[BRAKENBURY reads it]

BRAKENBURY:I am, in this, commanded to deliverThe noble Duke of Clarence to your hands:I will not reason what is meant hereby,Because I will be guiltless of the meaning.Here are the keys, there sits the duke asleep:I'll to the king; and signify to himThat thus I have resign'd my charge to you.

First Murderer:Do so, it is a point of wisdom: fare you well.

[Exit BRAKENBURY]

Second Murderer:What, shall we stab him as he sleeps?

First Murderer:No; then he will say 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes.

Second Murderer:When he wakes! why, fool, he shall never wake tillthe judgment-day.

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First Murderer:Why, then he will say we stabbed him sleeping.

Second Murderer:The urging of that word 'judgment' hath bred a kindof remorse in me.

First Murderer:What, art thou afraid?

Second Murderer:Not to kill him, having a warrant for it; but to bedamned for killing him, from which no warrant can defend us.

First Murderer:I thought thou hadst been resolute.

Second Murderer:So I am, to let him live.

First MurdererBack to the Duke of Gloucester, tell him so.

Second Murderer:I pray thee, stay a while: I hope my holy humourwill change; 'twas wont to hold me but while onewould tell twenty.

First Murderer:How dost thou feel thyself now?

Second Murderer:'Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yetwithin me.

First Murderer:Remember our reward, when the deed is done.

Second Murderer:'Zounds, he dies: I had forgot the reward.

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First Murderer:Where is thy conscience now?

Second Murderer:In the Duke of Gloucester's purse.

First Murderer:So when he opens his purse to give us our reward,thy conscience flies out.

Second Murderer:Let it go; there's few or none will entertain it.

First Murderer:How if it come to thee again?

Second Murderer:I'll not meddle with it: it is a dangerous thing: itmakes a man a coward: a man cannot steal, but itaccuseth him; he cannot swear, but it cheques him;he cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but itdetects him: 'tis a blushing shamefast spirit thatmutinies in a man's bosom; it fills one full ofobstacles: it made me once restore a purse of goldthat I found; it beggars any man that keeps it: itis turned out of all towns and cities for adangerous thing; and every man that means to livewell endeavours to trust to himself and to livewithout it.

First Murderer:'Zounds, it is even now at my elbow, persuading menot to kill the duke.

Second Murderer:Take the devil in thy mind, and relieve him not: hewould insinuate with thee but to make thee sigh.

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First Murderer:Tut, I am strong-framed, he cannot prevail with me,I warrant thee.

Second Murderer:Spoke like a tail fellow that respects hisreputation. Come, shall we to this gear?

First Murderer:Take him over the costard with the hilts of thysword, and then we will chop him in the malmsey-buttin the next room.

Second Murderer:O excellent devise! make a sop of him.

First Murderer:Hark! he stirs: shall I strike?

Second Murderer:No, first let's reason with him.

CLARENCE:Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of wine.

Second murderer:You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon.

CLARENCE:In God's name, what art thou?

Second Murderer:A man, as you are.

CLARENCE:But not, as I am, royal.

Second Murderer:Nor you, as we are, loyal.

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CLARENCEThy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble.

Second Murderer:My voice is now the king's, my looks mine own.

CLARENCE:How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak!Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale?Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

Both:To, to, to—

CLARENCE:To murder me?

Both:Ay, ay.

CLARENCE:You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

First Murderer:Offended us you have not, but the king.

CLARENCE:I shall be reconciled to him again.

Second Murderer:Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die.

CLARENCE:Are you call'd forth from out a world of menTo slay the innocent? What is my offence?Where are the evidence that do accuse me?What lawful quest have given their verdict upUnto the frowning judge? or who pronounced

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The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death?Before I be convict by course of law,To threaten me with death is most unlawful.I charge you, as you hope to have redemptionBy Christ's dear blood shed for our grievous sins,That you depart and lay no hands on meThe deed you undertake is damnable.

First Murderer:What we will do, we do upon command.

Second Murderer:And he that hath commanded is the king.

CLARENCE:Erroneous vassal! the great King of kingsHath in the tables of his law commandedThat thou shalt do no murder: and wilt thou, then,Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man's?Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hands,To hurl upon their heads that break his law.

Second Murderer:And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee,For false forswearing and for murder too:Thou didst receive the holy sacrament,To fight in quarrel of the house of Lancaster.

First Murderer:And, like a traitor to the name of God,Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous bladeUnrip'dst the bowels of thy sovereign's son.

Second Murderer:Whom thou wert sworn to cherish and defend.

First Murderer:How canst thou urge God's dreadful law to us,When thou hast broke it in so dear degree?

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CLARENCE:Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed?For Edward, for my brother, for his sake: Why, sirs,He sends ye not to murder me for thisFor in this sin he is as deep as I.If God will be revenged for this deed.O, know you yet, he doth it publicly,Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm;He needs no indirect nor lawless courseTo cut off those that have offended him.

First Murderer:Who made thee, then, a bloody minister,When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet,That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

CLARENCE:My brother's love, the devil, and my rage.

First Murderer:Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy fault,Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

CLARENCE:Oh, if you love my brother, hate not me;I am his brother, and I love him well.If you be hired for meed, go back again,And I will send you to my brother Gloucester,Who shall reward you better for my lifeThan Edward will for tidings of my death.

Second Murderer:You are deceived, your brother Gloucester hates you.

CLARENCE:O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear:Go you to him from me.

Both:Ay, so we will.

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CLARENCE:Tell him, when that our princely father YorkBless'd his three sons with his victorious arm,And charged us from his soul to love each other,He little thought of this divided friendship:Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep.

First Murderer:Ay, millstones; as be lesson'd us to weep.

CLARENCE:O, do not slander him, for he is kind.

First Murderer:Right,As snow in harvest. Thou deceivest thyself:'Tis he that sent us hither now to slaughter thee.

CLARENCE:It cannot be; for when I parted with him,He hugg'd me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,That he would labour my delivery.

Second Murderer:Why, so he doth, now he delivers theeFrom this world's thraldom to the joys of heaven.

First Murderer:Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord.

CLARENCE:Hast thou that holy feeling in thy soul,To counsel me to make my peace with God,And art thou yet to thy own soul so blind,That thou wilt war with God by murdering me?Ah, sirs, consider, he that set you onTo do this deed will hate you for the deed.

Second Murderer:What shall we do?

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CLARENCE:Relent, and save your souls.

First Murderer:Relent! 'tis cowardly and womanish.

CLARENCE:Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish.Which of you, if you were a prince's son,Being pent from liberty, as I am now,if two such murderers as yourselves came to you,Would not entreat for life?My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks:O, if thine eye be not a flatterer,Come thou on my side, and entreat for me,As you would beg, were you in my distressA begging prince what beggar pities not?

Second Murderer:Look behind you, my lord.

First Murderer:Take that, and that: if all this will not do,

[Stabs him]

I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.

[Exit, with the body]

Second Murderer:A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch'd!How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my handsOf this most grievous guilty murder done!

[Re-enter First Murderer]

First Murderer:How now! what mean'st thou, that thou help'st me not?By heavens, the duke shall know how slack thou art!

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Second Murderer:I would he knew that I had saved his brother!Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say;For I repent me that the duke is slain.

[Exit]

First Murderer:So do not I: go, coward as thou art.Now must I hide his body in some hole,Until the duke take order for his burial:And when I have my meed, I must away;For this will out, and here I must not stay.

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from The Tempest

by William Shakespeare

ACT V

SCENE I

Before PROSPERO'S cell

[Enter PROSPERO in his magic robes, and ARIEL]

PROSPERO:Now does my project gather to a head:My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and timeGoes upright with his carriage. How's the day?

ARIEL:On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,You said our work should cease.

PROSPERO:I did say so,When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,How fares the king and's followers?

ARIEL:Confined togetherIn the same fashion as you gave in charge,Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir,In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell;They cannot budge till your release. The king,His brother and yours, abide all three distractedAnd the remainder mourning over them,Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chieflyHim that you term'd, sir, 'The good old lord Gonzalo;'His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops

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From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works 'emThat if you now beheld them, your affectionsWould become tender.

PROSPERO:Dost thou think so, spirit?

ARIEL:Mine would, sir, were I human.

PROSPERO:And mine shall.Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feelingOf their afflictions, and shall not myself,One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,Yet with my nobler reason 'gaitist my furyDo I take part: the rarer action isIn virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,The sole drift of my purpose doth extendNot a frown further. Go release them, Ariel:My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore,And they shall be themselves.

ARIEL:I'll fetch them, sir.

[Exit]

PROSPERO:Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,And ye that on the sands with printless footDo chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly himWhen he comes back; you demi-puppets thatBy moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastimeIs to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm'd

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The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vaultSet roaring war: to the dread rattling thunderHave I given fire and rifted Jove's stout oakWith his own bolt; the strong-based promontoryHave I made shake and by the spurs pluck'd upThe pine and cedar: graves at my commandHave waked their sleepers, oped, and let 'em forthBy my so potent art. But this rough magicI here abjure, and, when I have requiredSome heavenly music, which even now I do,To work mine end upon their senses thatThis airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,And deeper than did ever plummet soundI'll drown my book.

[Solemn music

Re-enter ARIEL before: then ALONSO, with a frantic gesture, attended by GONZALO; SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO in like manner, attended by ADRIAN and FRANCISCO they all enter the circle which PROSPERO had made, and there stand charmed; which PROSPERO observing, speaks:]

A solemn air and the best comforterTo an unsettled fancy cure thy brains,Now useless, boil'd within thy skull! There stand,For you are spell-stopp'd.Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace,And as the morning steals upon the night,Melting the darkness, so their rising sensesBegin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantleTheir clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,My true preserver, and a loyal sirTo him you follow'st! I will pay thy gracesHome both in word and deed. Most cruellyDidst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:Thy brother was a furtherer in the act.

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Thou art pinch'd fort now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition,Expell'd remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,Would here have kill'd your king; I do forgive thee,Unnatural though thou art. Their understandingBegins to swell, and the approaching tideWill shortly fill the reasonable shoreThat now lies foul and muddy. Not one of themThat yet looks on me, or would know me Ariel,Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell:I will discase me, and myself presentAs I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;Thou shalt ere long be free.

[ARIEL sings and helps to attire him]

Where the bee sucks. there suck I:In a cowslip's bell I lie;There I couch when owls do cry.On the bat's back I do flyAfter summer merrily.Merrily, merrily shall I live nowUnder the blossom that hangs on the bough.

PROSPERO:Why, that's my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee:But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so.To the king's ship, invisible as thou art:There shalt thou find the mariners asleepUnder the hatches; the master and the boatswainBeing awake, enforce them to this place,And presently, I prithee.

ARIEL:I drink the air before me, and returnOr ere your pulse twice beat.

[Exit]

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GONZALO:All torment, trouble, wonder and amazementInhabits here: some heavenly power guide usOut of this fearful country!

PROSPERO:Behold, sir king,The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero:For more assurance that a living princeDoes now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;And to thee and thy company I bidA hearty welcome.

ALONSO:Whether thou best he or no,Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,As late I have been, I not know: thy pulseBeats as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,The affliction of my mind amends, with which,I fear, a madness held me: this must crave,An if this be at all, a most strange story.Thy dukedom I resign and do entreatThou pardon me my wrongs. But how should ProsperoBe living and be here?

PROSPERO:First, noble friend,Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannotBe measured or confined.

GONZALO:Whether this beOr be not, I'll not swear.

PROSPERO:You do yet tasteSome subtilties o' the isle, that will not let youBelieve things certain. Welcome, my friends all!

[Aside to SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO]

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But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,I here could pluck his highness' frown upon youAnd justify you traitors: at this timeI will tell no tales.

SEBASTIAN:[Aside] The devil speaks in him.

PROSPERO:No.For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brotherWould even infect my mouth, I do forgiveThy rankest fault; all of them; and requireMy dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,Thou must restore.

ALONSO:If thou be'st Prospero,Give us particulars of thy preservation;How thou hast met us here, who three hours sinceWere wreck'd upon this shore; where I have lost--How sharp the point of this remembrance is!--My dear son Ferdinand.

PROSPERO:I am woe for't, sir.

ALONSO:Irreparable is the loss, and patienceSays it is past her cure.

PROSPERO:I rather thinkYou have not sought her help, of whose soft graceFor the like loss I have her sovereign aidAnd rest myself content.

ALONSO:You the like loss!

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PROSPERO:As great to me as late; and, supportableTo make the dear loss, have I means much weakerThan you may call to comfort you, for IHave lost my daughter.

ALONSO:A daughter?O heavens, that they were living both in Naples,The king and queen there! that they were, I wishMyself were mudded in that oozy bedWhere my son lies. When did you lose your daughter?

PROSPERO:In this last tempest. I perceive these lordsAt this encounter do so much admireThat they devour their reason and scarce thinkTheir eyes do offices of truth, their wordsAre natural breath: but, howsoe'er you haveBeen justled from your senses, know for certainThat I am Prospero and that very dukeWhich was thrust forth of Milan, who most strangelyUpon this shore, where you were wreck'd, was landed,To be the lord on't. No more yet of this;For 'tis a chronicle of day by day,Not a relation for a breakfast norBefitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;This cell's my court: here have I few attendantsAnd subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.My dukedom since you have given me again,I will requite you with as good a thing;At least bring forth a wonder, to content yeAs much as me my dukedom.

[Here PROSPERO discovers FERDINAND and MIRANDA playing at chess]

MIRANDA:Sweet lord, you play me false.

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FERDINAND:No, my dear'st love,I would not for the world.

MIRANDA:Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,And I would call it, fair play.

ALONSO:If this proveA vision of the Island, one dear sonShall I twice lose.

SEBASTIAN:A most high miracle!

FERDINAND:Though the seas threaten, they are merciful;I have cursed them without cause.

[Kneels]

ALONSO:Now all the blessingsOf a glad father compass thee about!Arise, and say how thou camest here.

MIRANDA:O, wonder!How many goodly creatures are there here!How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,That has such people in't!

PROSPERO:'Tis new to thee.

ALONSO:What is this maid with whom thou wast at play?Your eld'st acquaintance cannot be three hours:

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Is she the goddess that hath sever'd us,And brought us thus together?

FERDINAND:Sir, she is mortal;But by immortal Providence she's mine:I chose her when I could not ask my fatherFor his advice, nor thought I had one. SheIs daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,Of whom so often I have heard renown,But never saw before; of whom I haveReceived a second life; and second fatherThis lady makes him to me.

ALONSO:I am hers:But, O, how oddly will it sound that IMust ask my child forgiveness!

PROSPERO:There, sir, stop:Let us not burthen our remembrance withA heaviness that's gone.

GONZALO:I have inly wept,Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you god,And on this couple drop a blessed crown!For it is you that have chalk'd forth the wayWhich brought us hither.

ALONSO:I say, Amen, Gonzalo!

GONZALO:Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issueShould become kings of Naples? O, rejoiceBeyond a common joy, and set it downWith gold on lasting pillars: In one voyageDid Claribel her husband find at Tunis,

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And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wifeWhere he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedomIn a poor isle and all of us ourselvesWhen no man was his own.

ALONSO:[To FERDINAND and MIRANDA] Give me your hands:Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heartThat doth not wish you joy!

GONZALO:Be it so! Amen!

[Re-enter ARIEL, with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following]

O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us:I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy,That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an oath on shore?Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news?

Boatswain:The best news is, that we have safely foundOur king and company; the next, our ship--Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split--Is tight and yare and bravely rigg'd as whenWe first put out to sea.

ARIEL:[Aside to PROSPERO] Sir, all this serviceHave I done since I went.

PROSPERO:[Aside to ARIEL] My tricksy spirit!

ALONSO:These are not natural events; they strengthenFrom strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither?

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Boatswain:If I did think, sir, I were well awake,I'ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,And--how we know not--all clapp'd under hatches;Where but even now with strange and several noisesOf roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,And more diversity of sounds, all horrible,We were awaked; straightway, at liberty;Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheldOur royal, good and gallant ship, our masterCapering to eye her: on a trice, so please you,Even in a dream, were we divided from themAnd were brought moping hither.

ARIEL:[Aside to PROSPERO] Was't well done?

PROSPERO:[Aside to ARIEL] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.

ALONSO:This is as strange a maze as e'er men trodAnd there is in this business more than natureWas ever conduct of: some oracleMust rectify our knowledge.

PROSPERO:Sir, my liege,Do not infest your mind with beating onThe strangeness of this business; at pick'd leisureWhich shall be shortly, single I'll resolve you,Which to you shall seem probable, of everyThese happen'd accidents; till when, be cheerfulAnd think of each thing well.

[Aside to ARIEL]

Come hither, spirit:Set Caliban and his companions free;Untie the spell.

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[Exit ARIEL]

How fares my gracious sir?There are yet missing of your companySome few odd lads that you remember not.

[Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO and TRINCULO, in their stolen apparel]

STEPHANO:Every man shift for all the rest, andlet no man take care for himself; for all isbut fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!

TRINCULO:If these be true spies which I wear in my head,here's a goodly sight.

CALIBAN:O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed!How fine my master is! I am afraidHe will chastise me.

SEBASTIAN:Ha, ha!What things are these, my lord Antonio?Will money buy 'em?

ANTONIO:Very like; one of themIs a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.

PROSPERO:Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave,His mother was a witch, and one so strongThat could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,And deal in her command without her power.These three have robb'd me; and this demi-devil--For he's a bastard one--had plotted with them

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To take my life. Two of these fellows youMust know and own; this thing of darkness!Acknowledge mine.

CALIBAN:I shall be pinch'd to death.

ALONSO:Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?

SEBASTIAN:He is drunk now: where had he wine?

ALONSO:And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should theyFind this grand liquor that hath gilded 'em?How camest thou in this pickle?

TRINCULO:I have been in such a pickle since Isaw you last that, I fear me, will never out ofmy bones: I shall not fear fly-blowing.

SEBASTIAN:Why, how now, Stephano!

STEPHANO:O, touch me not; I am not Stephano, but a cramp.

PROSPERO:You'ld be king o' the isle, sirrah?

STEPHANO:I should have been a sore one then.

ALONSOThis is a strange thing as e'er I look'd on.

[Pointing to Caliban]

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PROSPERO:He is as disproportion'd in his mannersAs in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;Take with you your companions; as you lookTo have my pardon, trim it handsomely.

CALIBAN:Ay, that I will; and I'll be wise hereafterAnd seek for grace. What a thrice-double assWas I, to take this drunkard for a godAnd worship this dull fool!

PROSPERO:Go to; away!

ALONSO:Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.

SEBASTIAN:Or stole it, rather.

[Exeunt CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO]

PROSPERO:Sir, I invite your highness and your trainTo my poor cell, where you shall take your restFor this one night; which, part of it, I'll wasteWith such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make itGo quick away; the story of my lifeAnd the particular accidents gone bySince I came to this isle: and in the mornI'll bring you to your ship and so to Naples,Where I have hope to see the nuptialOf these our dear-beloved solemnized;And thence retire me to my Milan, whereEvery third thought shall be my grave.

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ALONSO:I longTo hear the story of your life, which mustTake the ear strangely.

PROSPERO:I'll deliver all;And promise you calm seas, auspicious galesAnd sail so expeditious that shall catchYour royal fleet far off.

[Aside to ARIEL]

My Ariel, chick,That is thy charge: then to the elementsBe free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.

[Exeunt]

EPILOGUESPOKEN BY PROSPERO

Now my charms are all o'erthrown,And what strength I have's mine own,Which is most faint: now, 'tis true,I must be here confined by you,Or sent to Naples. Let me not,Since I have my dukedom gotAnd pardon'd the deceiver, dwellIn this bare island by your spell;But release me from my bandsWith the help of your good hands:Gentle breath of yours my sailsMust fill, or else my project fails,Which was to please. Now I wantSpirits to enforce, art to enchant,And my ending is despair,Unless I be relieved by prayer,Which pierces so that it assaultsMercy itself and frees all faults.

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As you from crimes would pardon'd be,Let your indulgence set me free.

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