William Shakespeare — Tragedies

Contents — 47 sections

1. ACT I
2. ACT II
3. ACT III
4. ACT IV
5. ACT V
6. ACT I
7. ACT I, SCENE II. Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace.
8. ACT I, SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.
9. ACT I, SCENE IV. Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House.
10. ACT I, SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
11. ACT II
12. ACT II, SCENE II. Rome. A Room in the House of Lepidus.
13. ACT II, SCENE III. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House.
14. ACT II, SCENE IV. Rome. A street.
15. ACT II, SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
16. ACT II, SCENE VI. Near Misenum.
17. ACT II, SCENE VII. On board Pompey’s Galley, lying near Misenum.
18. ACT III
19. ACT III, SCENE II. Rome. An Ante-chamber in Caesar’s house.
20. ACT III, SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
21. ACT III, SCENE IV. Athens. A Room in Antony’s House.
22. ACT III, SCENE V. Athens. Another Room in Antony’s House.
23. ACT III, SCENE VI. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House.
24. ACT III, SCENE VII. Antony’s Camp near the Promontory of Actium.
25. ACT III, SCENE VIII. A plain near Actium.
26. ACT III, SCENE IX. Another part of the Plain.
27. ACT III, SCENE X. Another part of the Plain.
28. ACT III, SCENE XI. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
29. ACT III, SCENE XII. Caesar’s camp in Egypt.
30. ACT III, SCENE XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
31. ACT IV
32. ACT IV, SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
33. ACT IV, SCENE III. Alexandria. Before the Palace.
34. ACT IV, SCENE IV. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
35. ACT IV, SCENE V. Antony’s camp near Alexandria.
36. ACT IV, SCENE VI. Alexandria. Caesar’s camp.
37. ACT IV, SCENE VII. Field of battle between the Camps.
38. ACT IV, SCENE VIII. Under the Walls of Alexandria.
39. ACT IV, SCENE IX. Caesar’s camp.
40. ACT IV, SCENE X. Ground between the two Camps.
41. ACT IV, SCENE XI. Another part of the Ground.
42. ACT IV, SCENE XII. Another part of the Ground.
43. ACT IV, SCENE XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.
44. ACT IV, SCENE XIV. Alexandria. Another Room.
45. ACT IV, SCENE XV. Alexandria. A monument.
46. ACT V
47. ACT V, SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Monument.

ACT I

Scene I. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Scene II. Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Scene III. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace. Scene IV. Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House Scene V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

ACT II

Scene I. Messina. A Room in Pompey’s house. Scene II. Rome. A Room in the House of Lepidus. Scene III. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House. Scene IV. Rome. A street. Scene V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene VI. Near Misenum. Scene VII. On board Pompey’s Galley, lying near Misenum.

ACT III

Scene I. A plain in Syria. Scene II. Rome. An Ante-chamber in Caesar’s house. Scene III. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene IV. Athens. A Room in Antony’s House. Scene V. Athens. Another Room in Antony’s House. Scene VI. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House. Scene VII. Antony’s Camp near the Promontory of Actium. Scene VIII. A plain near Actium. Scene IX. Another part of the Plain. Scene X. Another part of the Plain. Scene XI. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene XII. Caesar’s camp in Egypt. Scene XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

ACT IV

Scene I. Caesar’s Camp at Alexandria. Scene II. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene III. Alexandria. Before the Palace. Scene IV. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene V. Antony’s camp near Alexandria. Scene VI. Alexandria. Caesar’s camp. Scene VII. Field of battle between the Camps. Scene VIII. Under the Walls of Alexandria. Scene IX. Caesar’s camp. Scene X. Ground between the two Camps. Scene XI. Another part of the Ground. Scene XII. Another part of the Ground. Scene XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace. Scene XIV. Alexandria. Another Room. Scene XV. Alexandria. A monument.

ACT V

Scene I. Caesar’s Camp before Alexandria. Scene II. Alexandria. A Room in the Monument.

Dramatis Personæ

MARK ANTONY, Triumvir OCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir LEPIDUS, Triumvir SEXTUS POMPEIUS, DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, friend to Antony VENTIDIUS, friend to Antony EROS, friend to Antony SCARUS, friend to Antony DERCETUS, friend to Antony DEMETRIUS, friend to Antony PHILO, friend to Antony MAECENAS, friend to Caesar AGRIPPA, friend to Caesar DOLABELLA, friend to Caesar PROCULEIUS, friend to Caesar THIDIAS, friend to Caesar GALLUS, friend to Caesar MENAS, friend to Pompey MENECRATES, friend to Pompey VARRIUS, friend to Pompey TAURUS, Lieutenant-General to Caesar CANIDIUS, Lieutenant-General to Antony SILIUS, an Officer in Ventidius’s army EUPHRONIUS, an Ambassador from Antony to Caesar ALEXAS, attendant on Cleopatra MARDIAN, attendant on Cleopatra SELEUCUS, attendant on Cleopatra DIOMEDES, attendant on Cleopatra A SOOTHSAYER A CLOWN

CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt OCTAVIA, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony CHARMIAN, Attendant on Cleopatra IRAS, Attendant on Cleopatra

Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants

SCENE: Dispersed, in several parts of the Roman Empire.

ACT I

SCENE I. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.

Enter Demetrius and Philo.

Nay, but this dotage of our general’s O’erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes, That o’er the files and musters of the war Have glowed like plated Mars, now bend, now turn The office and devotion of their view Upon a tawny front. His captain’s heart, Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper And is become the bellows and the fan To cool a gipsy’s lust.

Flourish. Enter Antony and Cleopatra, her Ladies, the Train, with Eunuchs fanning her.

Look where they come: Take but good note, and you shall see in him The triple pillar of the world transform’d Into a strumpet’s fool. Behold and see.

If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved.

Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

Enter a Messenger.

News, my good lord, from Rome.

Grates me, the sum.

Nay, hear them, Antony. Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent His powerful mandate to you: “Do this or this; Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that. Perform’t, or else we damn thee.”

How, my love?

Perchance! Nay, and most like. You must not stay here longer; your dismission Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony. Where’s Fulvia’s process?—Caesar’s I would say? Both? Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen, Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine Is Caesar’s homager; else so thy cheek pays shame When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers!

Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay. Our dungy earth alike Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life Is to do thus [_Embracing_]; when such a mutual pair And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind, On pain of punishment, the world to weet We stand up peerless.

Excellent falsehood! Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her? I’ll seem the fool I am not. Antony Will be himself.

But stirred by Cleopatra. Now, for the love of Love and her soft hours, Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh. There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight?

Hear the ambassadors.

Fie, wrangling queen! Whom everything becomes—to chide, to laugh, To weep; whose every passion fully strives To make itself, in thee fair and admired! No messenger but thine, and all alone Tonight we’ll wander through the streets and note The qualities of people. Come, my queen, Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.

[_Exeunt Antony and Cleopatra with the Train._]

Is Caesar with Antonius prized so slight?

Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony, He comes too short of that great property Which still should go with Antony.

I am full sorry That he approves the common liar who Thus speaks of him at Rome, but I will hope Of better deeds tomorrow. Rest you happy!

ACT I, SCENE II. Alexandria. Another Room in Cleopatra’s palace.

Enter Enobarbus, a Soothsayer, Charmian, Iras, Mardian and Alexas.

Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where’s the soothsayer that you praised so to th’ queen? O, that I knew this husband which you say must charge his horns with garlands!

Your will?

Is this the man? Is’t you, sir, that know things?

In nature’s infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.

Show him your hand.

Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough Cleopatra’s health to drink.

Good, sir, give me good fortune.

I make not, but foresee.

Pray, then, foresee me one.

You shall be yet far fairer than you are.

He means in flesh.

No, you shall paint when you are old.

Wrinkles forbid!

Vex not his prescience. Be attentive.

You shall be more beloving than beloved.

I had rather heat my liver with drinking.

Nay, hear him.

Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to three kings in a forenoon and widow them all. Let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage. Find me to marry me with Octavius Caesar, and companion me with my mistress.

You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.

O, excellent! I love long life better than figs.

You have seen and proved a fairer former fortune Than that which is to approach.

Then belike my children shall have no names. Prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?

If every of your wishes had a womb, And fertile every wish, a million.

Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.

You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.

Nay, come, tell Iras hers.

We’ll know all our fortunes.

Mine, and most of our fortunes tonight, shall be drunk to bed.

There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.

E’en as the o’erflowing Nilus presageth famine.

Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.

Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee, tell her but workaday fortune.

Your fortunes are alike.

But how, but how? give me particulars.

I have said.

Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?

Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I, where would you choose it?

Not in my husband’s nose.

Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas—come, his fortune! his fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee, and let her die too, and give him a worse, and let worse follow worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave, fiftyfold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight; good Isis, I beseech thee!

Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! For, as it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded. Therefore, dear Isis, keep decorum and fortune him accordingly!

Lo now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make themselves whores but they’d do’t!

Enter Cleopatra.

Hush, Here comes Antony.

Not he, the queen.

Saw you my lord?

No, lady.

Was he not here?

No, madam.

He was disposed to mirth; but on the sudden A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!

Seek him and bring him hither. Where’s Alexas?

Here, at your service. My lord approaches.

Enter Antony with a Messenger.

We will not look upon him. Go with us.

[_Exeunt Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas and Soothsayer._]

Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.

Against my brother Lucius.

Ay. But soon that war had end, and the time’s state Made friends of them, jointing their force ’gainst Caesar, Whose better issue in the war from Italy Upon the first encounter drave them.

Well, what worst?

The nature of bad news infects the teller.

When it concerns the fool or coward. On. Things that are past are done with me. ’Tis thus: Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death, I hear him as he flattered.

Labienus— This is stiff news—hath with his Parthian force Extended Asia from Euphrates His conquering banner shook from Syria To Lydia and to Ionia, Whilst—

“Antony”, thou wouldst say—

O, my lord!

Speak to me home; mince not the general tongue. Name Cleopatra as she is called in Rome; Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase, and taunt my faults With such full licence as both truth and malice Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds When our quick minds lie still, and our ills told us Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.

At your noble pleasure.

[_Exit Messenger._]

Enter another Messenger.

From Sicyon, ho, the news? Speak there!

SECOND MESSENGER.

The man from Sicyon—

Is there such a one?

SECOND MESSENGER.

He stays upon your will.

Let him appear.

[_Exit second Messenger._]

These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, Or lose myself in dotage.

Enter another Messenger with a letter.

What are you?

THIRD MESSENGER.

Fulvia thy wife is dead.

Where died she?

THIRD MESSENGER.

In Sicyon: Her length of sickness, with what else more serious Importeth thee to know, this bears.

[_Gives a letter._]

Forbear me.

[_Exit third Messenger._]

There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it. What our contempts doth often hurl from us, We wish it ours again. The present pleasure, By revolution lowering, does become The opposite of itself. She’s good, being gone. The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on. I must from this enchanting queen break off. Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know, My idleness doth hatch. How now, Enobarbus!

Enter Enobarbus.

What’s your pleasure, sir?

I must with haste from hence.

Why then we kill all our women. We see how mortal an unkindness is to them. If they suffer our departure, death’s the word.

I must be gone.

Under a compelling occasion, let women die. It were pity to cast them away for nothing, though, between them and a great cause they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly. I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do think there is mettle in death which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying.

She is cunning past man’s thought.

Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

Would I had never seen her!

O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of work, which not to have been blest withal would have discredited your travel.

Fulvia is dead.

Fulvia is dead.

Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein that when old robes are worn out, there are members to make new. If there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented. This grief is crowned with consolation; your old smock brings forth a new petticoat: and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.

The business she hath broached in the state Cannot endure my absence.

And the business you have broached here cannot be without you, especially that of Cleopatra’s, which wholly depends on your abode.

No more light answers. Let our officers Have notice what we purpose. I shall break The cause of our expedience to the Queen, And get her leave to part. For not alone The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches, Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too Of many our contriving friends in Rome Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands The empire of the sea. Our slippery people, Whose love is never linked to the deserver Till his deserts are past, begin to throw Pompey the Great and all his dignities Upon his son, who, high in name and power, Higher than both in blood and life, stands up For the main soldier; whose quality, going on, The sides o’ th’ world may danger. Much is breeding Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life And not a serpent’s poison. Say our pleasure To such whose place is under us, requires Our quick remove from hence.

I shall do’t.

ACT I, SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in Cleopatra’s palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Alexas and Iras.

Where is he?

I did not see him since.

See where he is, who’s with him, what he does. I did not send you. If you find him sad, Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return.

[_Exit Alexas._]

Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly, You do not hold the method to enforce The like from him.

What should I do I do not?

In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.

Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him.

Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear. In time we hate that which we often fear. But here comes Antony.

Enter Antony.

I am sick and sullen.

I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—

Help me away, dear Charmian! I shall fall. It cannot be thus long; the sides of nature Will not sustain it.

Now, my dearest queen—

Pray you, stand farther from me.

What’s the matter?

I know by that same eye there’s some good news. What, says the married woman you may go? Would she had never given you leave to come! Let her not say ’tis I that keep you here. I have no power upon you; hers you are.

The gods best know—

O, never was there queen So mightily betrayed! Yet at the first I saw the treasons planted.

Why should I think you can be mine and true, Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness, To be entangled with those mouth-made vows Which break themselves in swearing!

Most sweet queen—

Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going, But bid farewell and go. When you sued staying, Then was the time for words. No going then, Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows’ bent; none our parts so poor But was a race of heaven. They are so still, Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world, Art turned the greatest liar.

How now, lady!

I would I had thy inches, thou shouldst know There were a heart in Egypt.

Hear me, queen: The strong necessity of time commands Our services awhile, but my full heart Remains in use with you. Our Italy Shines o’er with civil swords; Sextus Pompeius Makes his approaches to the port of Rome; Equality of two domestic powers Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength, Are newly grown to love; the condemned Pompey, Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace Into the hearts of such as have not thrived Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten; And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge By any desperate change. My more particular, And that which most with you should safe my going, Is Fulvia’s death.

Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?

She’s dead, my queen. Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read The garboils she awaked; at the last, best, See when and where she died.

O most false love! Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see, In Fulvia’s death how mine received shall be.

Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know The purposes I bear; which are, or cease, As you shall give th’ advice. By the fire That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war As thou affects.

Cut my lace, Charmian, come! But let it be; I am quickly ill and well, So Antony loves.

My precious queen, forbear, And give true evidence to his love, which stands An honourable trial.

So Fulvia told me. I prithee, turn aside and weep for her, Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene Of excellent dissembling, and let it look Like perfect honour.

You’ll heat my blood. No more.

You can do better yet, but this is meetly.

Now, by my sword—

And target. Still he mends. But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian, How this Herculean Roman does become The carriage of his chafe.

I’ll leave you, lady.

Courteous lord, one word. Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it; Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it; That you know well. Something it is I would— O, my oblivion is a very Antony, And I am all forgotten.

But that your royalty Holds idleness your subject, I should take you For idleness itself.

’Tis sweating labour To bear such idleness so near the heart As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me, Since my becomings kill me when they do not Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence; Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword Sit laurel victory, and smooth success Be strewed before your feet!

Let us go. Come. Our separation so abides and flies That thou, residing here, goes yet with me, And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee. Away!

ACT I, SCENE IV. Rome. An Apartment in Caesar’s House.

Enter Octavius [Caesar], Lepidus and their train.

You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know, It is not Caesar’s natural vice to hate Our great competitor. From Alexandria This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes The lamps of night in revel: is not more manlike Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or Vouchsafed to think he had partners. You shall find there A man who is the abstract of all faults That all men follow.

I must not think there are Evils enough to darken all his goodness. His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven, More fiery by night’s blackness; hereditary Rather than purchased; what he cannot change Than what he chooses.

You are too indulgent. Let’s grant it is not Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy, To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit And keep the turn of tippling with a slave, To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him— As his composure must be rare indeed Whom these things cannot blemish—yet must Antony No way excuse his foils when we do bear So great weight in his lightness. If he filled His vacancy with his voluptuousness, Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones Call on him for’t. But to confound such time That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud As his own state and ours, ’tis to be chid As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge, Pawn their experience to their present pleasure And so rebel to judgment.

Enter a Messenger.

Here’s more news.

Thy biddings have been done, and every hour, Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea, And it appears he is beloved of those That only have feared Caesar. To the ports The discontents repair, and men’s reports Give him much wronged.

I should have known no less. It hath been taught us from the primal state That he which is was wished until he were, And the ebbed man, ne’er loved till ne’er worth love, Comes deared by being lacked. This common body, Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide, To rot itself with motion.

Enter a second Messenger.

SECOND MESSENGER.

Caesar, I bring thee word Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates, Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads They make in Italy—the borders maritime Lack blood to think on’t—and flush youth revolt. No vessel can peep forth but ’tis as soon Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more Than could his war resisted.

Antony, Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel Did famine follow, whom thou fought’st against, Though daintily brought up, with patience more Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink The stale of horses and the gilded puddle Which beasts would cough at. Thy palate then did deign The roughest berry on the rudest hedge. Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets, The barks of trees thou browsed. On the Alps It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh Which some did die to look on. And all this— It wounds thine honour that I speak it now— Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek So much as lanked not.

’Tis pity of him.

Let his shames quickly Drive him to Rome. ’Tis time we twain Did show ourselves i’ th’ field, and to that end Assemble we immediate council. Pompey Thrives in our idleness.

Tomorrow, Caesar, I shall be furnished to inform you rightly Both what by sea and land I can be able To front this present time.

Till which encounter It is my business too. Farewell.

Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, To let me be partaker.

Doubt not, sir. I knew it for my bond.

ACT I, SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Mardian.

Ha, ha! Give me to drink mandragora.

Why, madam?

That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.

You think of him too much.

O, ’tis treason!

Madam, I trust not so.

Thou, eunuch Mardian!

What’s your highness’ pleasure?

Not now to hear thee sing. I take no pleasure In aught an eunuch has. ’Tis well for thee That, being unseminared, thy freer thoughts May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?

Yes, gracious madam.

Not in deed, madam, for I can do nothing But what indeed is honest to be done. Yet have I fierce affections, and think What Venus did with Mars.

O, Charmian, Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he? Or does he walk? Or is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! Do bravely, horse, for wot’st thou whom thou mov’st? The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm And burgonet of men. He’s speaking now, Or murmuring “Where’s my serpent of old Nile?” For so he calls me. Now I feed myself With most delicious poison. Think on me That am with Phœbus’ amorous pinches black, And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar, When thou wast here above the ground, I was A morsel for a monarch. And great Pompey Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow; There would he anchor his aspect, and die With looking on his life.

Enter Alexas.

Sovereign of Egypt, hail!

How much unlike art thou Mark Antony! Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath With his tinct gilded thee. How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?

Last thing he did, dear queen, He kissed—the last of many doubled kisses— This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.

Mine ear must pluck it thence.

“Good friend,” quoth he, “Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot, To mend the petty present, I will piece Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the east, Say thou, shall call her mistress.” So he nodded And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed, Who neighed so high that what I would have spoke Was beastly dumbed by him.

What, was he sad or merry?

Like to the time o’ th’ year between the extremes Of hot and cold, he was nor sad nor merry.

O well-divided disposition!—Note him, Note him, good Charmian, ’tis the man; but note him: He was not sad, for he would shine on those That make their looks by his; he was not merry, Which seemed to tell them his remembrance lay In Egypt with his joy; but between both. O heavenly mingle!—Be’st thou sad or merry, The violence of either thee becomes, So does it no man else.—Met’st thou my posts?

Ay, madam, twenty several messengers. Why do you send so thick?

Who’s born that day When I forget to send to Antony Shall die a beggar.—Ink and paper, Charmian.— Welcome, my good Alexas.—Did I, Charmian, Ever love Caesar so?

O that brave Caesar!

Be choked with such another emphasis! Say “the brave Antony.”

The valiant Caesar!

By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth If thou with Caesar paragon again My man of men.

By your most gracious pardon, I sing but after you.

My salad days, When I was green in judgment, cold in blood, To say as I said then. But come, away, Get me ink and paper. He shall have every day a several greeting, Or I’ll unpeople Egypt.

ACT II

SCENE I. Messina. A Room in Pompey’s house.

Enter Pompey, Menecrates and Menas in warlike manner.

If the great gods be just, they shall assist The deeds of justest men.

Know, worthy Pompey, That what they do delay they not deny.

Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays The thing we sue for.

We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.

I shall do well. The people love me, and the sea is mine; My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope Says it will come to th’ full. Mark Antony In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both, Of both is flattered; but he neither loves Nor either cares for him.

Caesar and Lepidus Are in the field. A mighty strength they carry.

Where have you this? ’Tis false.

From Silvius, sir.

He dreams. I know they are in Rome together, Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love, Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip! Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both; Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts; Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite, That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour Even till a Lethe’d dullness—

Enter Varrius.

How now, Varrius!

This is most certain that I shall deliver: Mark Antony is every hour in Rome Expected. Since he went from Egypt ’tis A space for farther travel.

I could have given less matter A better ear.—Menas, I did not think This amorous surfeiter would have donned his helm For such a petty war. His soldiership Is twice the other twain. But let us rear The higher our opinion, that our stirring Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck The ne’er lust-wearied Antony.

I cannot hope Caesar and Antony shall well greet together. His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Caesar; His brother warred upon him, although I think, Not moved by Antony.

I know not, Menas, How lesser enmities may give way to greater. Were’t not that we stand up against them all, ’Twere pregnant they should square between themselves, For they have entertained cause enough To draw their swords. But how the fear of us May cement their divisions, and bind up The petty difference, we yet not know. Be’t as our gods will have’t! It only stands Our lives upon to use our strongest hands. Come, Menas.

ACT II, SCENE II. Rome. A Room in the House of Lepidus.

Enter Enobarbus and Lepidus.

Good Enobarbus, ’tis a worthy deed, And shall become you well, to entreat your captain To soft and gentle speech.

I shall entreat him To answer like himself. If Caesar move him, Let Antony look over Caesar’s head And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter, Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard, I would not shave’t today.

’Tis not a time For private stomaching.

Every time Serves for the matter that is then born in’t.

But small to greater matters must give way.

Not if the small come first.

Your speech is passion; But pray you stir no embers up. Here comes The noble Antony.

Enter Antony and Ventidius.

And yonder Caesar.

Enter Caesar, Maecenas and Agrippa.

If we compose well here, to Parthia. Hark, Ventidius.

I do not know, Maecenas. Ask Agrippa.

Noble friends, That which combined us was most great, and let not A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss, May it be gently heard. When we debate Our trivial difference loud, we do commit Murder in healing wounds. Then, noble partners, The rather for I earnestly beseech, Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms, Nor curstness grow to th’ matter.

’Tis spoken well. Were we before our armies, and to fight, I should do thus.

Welcome to Rome.

Thank you.

Sit, sir.

Nay, then.

I learn you take things ill which are not so, Or being, concern you not.

I must be laughed at If, or for nothing or a little, I Should say myself offended, and with you Chiefly i’ th’ world; more laughed at that I should Once name you derogately when to sound your name It not concerned me.

My being in Egypt, Caesar, What was’t to you?

No more than my residing here at Rome Might be to you in Egypt. Yet if you there Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt Might be my question.

How intend you, practised?

You may be pleased to catch at mine intent By what did here befall me. Your wife and brother Made wars upon me, and their contestation Was theme for you; you were the word of war.

You do mistake your business. My brother never Did urge me in his act. I did inquire it, And have my learning from some true reports That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather Discredit my authority with yours, And make the wars alike against my stomach, Having alike your cause? Of this my letters Before did satisfy you. If you’ll patch a quarrel, As matter whole you have not to make it with, It must not be with this.

You praise yourself By laying defects of judgment to me; but You patched up your excuses.

Not so, not so. I know you could not lack—I am certain on’t— Very necessity of this thought, that I, Your partner in the cause ’gainst which he fought, Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another. The third o’ th’ world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.

Would we had all such wives, that the men Might go to wars with the women.

So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar, Made out of her impatience—which not wanted Shrewdness of policy too—I grieving grant Did you too much disquiet. For that you must But say I could not help it.

I wrote to you When rioting in Alexandria; you Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts Did gibe my missive out of audience.

Sir, He fell upon me ere admitted, then. Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want Of what I was i’ th’ morning. But next day I told him of myself, which was as much As to have asked him pardon. Let this fellow Be nothing of our strife; if we contend, Out of our question wipe him.

You have broken The article of your oath, which you shall never Have tongue to charge me with.

Soft, Caesar!

No, Lepidus, let him speak. The honour is sacred which he talks on now, Supposing that I lacked it. But on, Caesar: The article of my oath?

To lend me arms and aid when I required them, The which you both denied.

Neglected, rather; And then when poisoned hours had bound me up From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may I’ll play the penitent to you. But mine honesty Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power Work without it. Truth is that Fulvia, To have me out of Egypt, made wars here, For which myself, the ignorant motive, do So far ask pardon as befits mine honour To stoop in such a case.

’Tis noble spoken.

If it might please you to enforce no further The griefs between ye; to forget them quite Were to remember that the present need Speaks to atone you.

Worthily spoken, Maecenas.

Or, if you borrow one another’s love for the instant, you may, when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again. You shall have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do.

Thou art a soldier only. Speak no more.

That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.

You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.

Go to, then. Your considerate stone!

I do not much dislike the matter, but The manner of his speech; for’t cannot be We shall remain in friendship, our conditions So differing in their acts. Yet if I knew What hoop should hold us staunch, from edge to edge O’ th’ world I would pursue it.

Give me leave, Caesar.

Speak, Agrippa.

Thou hast a sister by the mother’s side, Admired Octavia. Great Mark Antony Is now a widower.

Say not so, Agrippa. If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof Were well deserved of rashness.

I am not married, Caesar. Let me hear Agrippa further speak.

To hold you in perpetual amity, To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts With an unslipping knot, take Antony Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims No worse a husband than the best of men; Whose virtue and whose general graces speak That which none else can utter. By this marriage All little jealousies, which now seem great, And all great fears, which now import their dangers, Would then be nothing. Truths would be tales, Where now half-tales be truths. Her love to both Would each to other, and all loves to both, Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke, For ’tis a studied, not a present thought, By duty ruminated.

Will Caesar speak?

Not till he hears how Antony is touched With what is spoke already.

What power is in Agrippa, If I would say “Agrippa, be it so,” To make this good?

The power of Caesar, and His power unto Octavia.

May I never To this good purpose, that so fairly shows, Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand. Further this act of grace; and from this hour The heart of brothers govern in our loves And sway our great designs!

There’s my hand. A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother Did ever love so dearly. Let her live To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never Fly off our loves again!

Happily, amen!

I did not think to draw my sword ’gainst Pompey, For he hath laid strange courtesies and great Of late upon me. I must thank him only, Lest my remembrance suffer ill report; At heel of that, defy him.

Time calls upon ’s. Of us must Pompey presently be sought, Or else he seeks out us.

Where lies he?

About the Mount Misena.

What is his strength by land?

Great and increasing; but by sea He is an absolute master.

So is the fame. Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it. Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we The business we have talked of.

With most gladness, And do invite you to my sister’s view, Whither straight I’ll lead you.

Let us, Lepidus, not lack your company.

Noble Antony, not sickness should detain me.

[_Flourish. Exeunt all except Enobarbus, Agrippa and Maecenas._]

Welcome from Egypt, sir.

Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Maecenas! My honourable friend, Agrippa!

Good Enobarbus!

We have cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You stayed well by ’t in Egypt.

Ay, sir, we did sleep day out of countenance and made the night light with drinking.

Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve persons there. Is this true?

This was but as a fly by an eagle. We had much more monstrous matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting.

She’s a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her.

When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed up his heart upon the river of Cydnus.

There she appeared indeed, or my reporter devised well for her.

I will tell you. The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned on the water. The poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggared all description: she did lie In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold of tissue, O’erpicturing that Venus where we see The fancy outwork nature. On each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With divers-coloured fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid did.

O, rare for Antony!

Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i’ th’ eyes, And made their bends adornings. At the helm A seeming mermaid steers. The silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her, and Antony, Enthroned i’ th’ market-place, did sit alone, Whistling to th’ air, which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in nature.

Rare Egyptian!

Upon her landing, Antony sent to her, Invited her to supper. She replied It should be better he became her guest, Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony, Whom ne’er the word of “No” woman heard speak, Being barbered ten times o’er, goes to the feast, And, for his ordinary, pays his heart For what his eyes eat only.

Royal wench! She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed. He ploughed her, and she cropped.

I saw her once Hop forty paces through the public street And, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted, That she did make defect perfection, And, breathless, pour breath forth.

Now Antony must leave her utterly.

Never. He will not. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies. For vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish.

If beauty, wisdom, modesty can settle The heart of Antony, Octavia is A blessed lottery to him.

Let us go. Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest Whilst you abide here.

Humbly, sir, I thank you.

ACT II, SCENE III. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House.

Enter Antony, Caesar, Octavia between them.

The world and my great office will sometimes Divide me from your bosom.

All which time Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers To them for you.

Good night, sir.—My Octavia, Read not my blemishes in the world’s report. I have not kept my square, but that to come Shall all be done by th’ rule. Good night, dear lady.

Good night, sir.

Good night.

[_Exeunt Caesar and Octavia._]

Enter Soothsayer.

Now, sirrah, you do wish yourself in Egypt?

Would I had never come from thence, nor you thither!

If you can, your reason.

I see it in my motion, have it not in my tongue. But yet hie you to Egypt again.

Say to me, Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar’s or mine?

Caesar’s. Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side. Thy dæmon—that thy spirit which keeps thee—is Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, Where Caesar’s is not. But near him, thy angel Becomes afeard, as being o’erpowered. Therefore Make space enough between you.

Speak this no more.

To none but thee; no more but when to thee. If thou dost play with him at any game, Thou art sure to lose; and of that natural luck He beats thee ’gainst the odds. Thy lustre thickens When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit Is all afraid to govern thee near him; But, he away, ’tis noble.

Get thee gone. Say to Ventidius I would speak with him.

[_Exit Soothsayer._]

He shall to Parthia. Be it art or hap, He hath spoken true. The very dice obey him, And in our sports my better cunning faints Under his chance. If we draw lots, he speeds; His cocks do win the battle still of mine When it is all to naught, and his quails ever Beat mine, inhooped, at odds. I will to Egypt: And though I make this marriage for my peace, I’ th’ East my pleasure lies.

Enter Ventidius.

O, come, Ventidius, You must to Parthia. Your commission’s ready. Follow me and receive ’t.

ACT II, SCENE IV. Rome. A street.

Enter Lepidus, Maecenas and Agrippa.

Trouble yourselves no further. Pray you hasten Your generals after.

Sir, Mark Antony Will e’en but kiss Octavia, and we’ll follow.

Till I shall see you in your soldier’s dress, Which will become you both, farewell.

We shall, As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount Before you, Lepidus.

Your way is shorter; My purposes do draw me much about. You’ll win two days upon me.

Sir, good success!

ACT II, SCENE V. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, Alexas.

Give me some music—music, moody food Of us that trade in love.

The music, ho!

Enter Mardian, the eunuch.

Let it alone. Let’s to billiards. Come, Charmian.

My arm is sore. Best play with Mardian.

As well a woman with an eunuch played As with a woman. Come, you’ll play with me, sir?

As well as I can, madam.

And when good will is showed, though’t come too short, The actor may plead pardon. I’ll none now. Give me mine angle; we’ll to the river. There, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws, and as I draw them up I’ll think them every one an Antony, And say “Ah, ha! You’re caught.”

’Twas merry when You wagered on your angling; when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.

That time?—O times!— I laughed him out of patience; and that night I laughed him into patience, and next morn, Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed, Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst I wore his sword Philippan.

Enter Messenger.

O! from Italy! Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, That long time have been barren.

Madam, madam—

Antony’s dead! If thou say so, villain, Thou kill’st thy mistress. But well and free, If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest veins to kiss, a hand that kings Have lipped, and trembled kissing.

First, madam, he’s well.

Why, there’s more gold. But sirrah, mark, we use To say the dead are well. Bring it to that, The gold I give thee will I melt and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat.

Good madam, hear me.

Well, go to, I will. But there’s no goodness in thy face if Antony Be free and healthful. So tart a favour To trumpet such good tidings! If not well, Thou shouldst come like a Fury crowned with snakes, Not like a formal man.

Will’t please you hear me?

I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak’st. Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, I’ll set thee in a shower of gold and hail Rich pearls upon thee.

Madam, he’s well.

Well said.

And friends with Caesar.

Th’ art an honest man.

Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.

Make thee a fortune from me.

But yet, madam—

I do not like “But yet”, it does allay The good precedence. Fie upon “But yet”! “But yet” is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, The good and bad together: he’s friends with Caesar, In state of health, thou say’st; and, thou say’st, free.

Free, madam? No. I made no such report. He’s bound unto Octavia.

For what good turn?

For the best turn i’ th’ bed.

I am pale, Charmian.

Madam, he’s married to Octavia.

The most infectious pestilence upon thee!

[_Strikes him down._]

Good madam, patience.

What say you?

[_Strikes him again._]

Hence, horrible villain, or I’ll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me! I’ll unhair thy head!

[_She hales him up and down._]

Thou shalt be whipped with wire and stewed in brine, Smarting in ling’ring pickle.

Gracious madam, I that do bring the news made not the match.

Say ’tis not so, a province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage, And I will boot thee with what gift beside Thy modesty can beg.

He’s married, madam.

Rogue, thou hast lived too long.

[_Draws a knife._]

Nay then I’ll run. What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.

Good madam, keep yourself within yourself. The man is innocent.

Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt. Melt Egypt into Nile, and kindly creatures Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again. Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call!

He is afeard to come.

I will not hurt him.

[_Exit Charmian._]

These hands do lack nobility that they strike A meaner than myself, since I myself Have given myself the cause.

Enter the Messenger again with Charmian.

Come hither, sir. Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.

I have done my duty.

Is he married? I cannot hate thee worser than I do If thou again say “Yes.”

He’s married, madam.

The gods confound thee! Dost thou hold there still!

Should I lie, madam?

O, I would thou didst, So half my Egypt were submerged and made A cistern for scaled snakes! Go, get thee hence. Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?

I crave your highness’ pardon.

He is married?

Take no offence that I would not offend you. To punish me for what you make me do Seems much unequal. He’s married to Octavia.

O, that his fault should make a knave of thee That art not what thou’rt sure of! Get thee hence! The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome Are all too dear for me. Lie they upon thy hand, And be undone by ’em!

[_Exit Messenger._]

Good your highness, patience.

In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar.

Many times, madam.

I am paid for’t now. Lead me from hence; I faint. O Iras, Charmian! ’Tis no matter. Go to the fellow, good Alexas, bid him Report the feature of Octavia, her years, Her inclination; let him not leave out The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly.

[_Exit Alexas._]

Let him for ever go—let him not, Charmian. Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, The other way ’s a Mars. [_To Mardian_] Bid you Alexas Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian, But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.

ACT II, SCENE VI. Near Misenum.

Flourish. Enter Pompey and Menas at one door, with drum and trumpet; at another, Caesar, Lepidus, Antony, Enobarbus, Maecenas, Agrippa, with Soldiers marching.

Your hostages I have, so have you mine, And we shall talk before we fight.

Most meet That first we come to words, and therefore have we Our written purposes before us sent, Which if thou hast considered, let us know If ’twill tie up thy discontented sword And carry back to Sicily much tall youth That else must perish here.

To you all three, The senators alone of this great world, Chief factors for the gods: I do not know Wherefore my father should revengers want, Having a son and friends, since Julius Caesar, Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted, There saw you labouring for him. What was’t That moved pale Cassius to conspire? And what Made the all-honoured, honest Roman, Brutus, With the armed rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom, To drench the Capitol, but that they would Have one man but a man? And that is it Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden The angered ocean foams, with which I meant To scourge th’ ingratitude that despiteful Rome Cast on my noble father.

Take your time.

Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails. We’ll speak with thee at sea. At land thou know’st How much we do o’ercount thee.

At land indeed Thou dost o’ercount me of my father’s house; But since the cuckoo builds not for himself, Remain in’t as thou mayst.

Be pleased to tell us— For this is from the present—how you take The offers we have sent you.

There’s the point.

Which do not be entreated to, but weigh What it is worth embraced.

And what may follow To try a larger fortune.

You have made me offer Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must Rid all the sea of pirates; then to send Measures of wheat to Rome. This ’greed upon, To part with unhacked edges and bear back Our targes undinted.

CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS. That’s our offer.

Know, then, I came before you here a man prepared To take this offer. But Mark Antony Put me to some impatience. Though I lose The praise of it by telling, you must know When Caesar and your brother were at blows, Your mother came to Sicily and did find Her welcome friendly.

I have heard it, Pompey, And am well studied for a liberal thanks Which I do owe you.

Let me have your hand. I did not think, sir, to have met you here.

The beds i’ th’ East are soft; and thanks to you, That called me timelier than my purpose hither, For I have gained by ’t.

Since I saw you last, There is a change upon you.

Well, I know not What counts harsh Fortune casts upon my face, But in my bosom shall she never come To make my heart her vassal.

Well met here.

I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed. I crave our composition may be written And sealed between us.

That’s the next to do.

We’ll feast each other ere we part, and let’s Draw lots who shall begin.

That will I, Pompey.

No, Antony, take the lot. But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar Grew fat with feasting there.

You have heard much.

I have fair meanings, sir.

And fair words to them.

Then so much have I heard. And I have heard Apollodorus carried—

No more of that. He did so.

What, I pray you?

A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.

I know thee now. How far’st thou, soldier?

Well; And well am like to do, for I perceive Four feasts are toward.

Let me shake thy hand. I never hated thee. I have seen thee fight When I have envied thy behaviour.

Sir, I never loved you much, but I ha’ praised ye When you have well deserved ten times as much As I have said you did.

Enjoy thy plainness; It nothing ill becomes thee. Aboard my galley I invite you all. Will you lead, lords?

CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS. Show’s the way, sir.

[_Exeunt all but Enobarbus and Menas._]

[_Aside_.] Thy father, Pompey, would ne’er have made this treaty.— You and I have known, sir.

At sea, I think.

We have, sir.

You have done well by water.

And you by land.

I will praise any man that will praise me, though it cannot be denied what I have done by land.

Nor what I have done by water.

Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you have been a great thief by sea.

And you by land.

There I deny my land service. But give me your hand, Menas. If our eyes had authority, here they might take two thieves kissing.

All men’s faces are true, whatsome’er their hands are.

But there is never a fair woman has a true face.

No slander. They steal hearts.

We came hither to fight with you.

For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a drinking. Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune.

If he do, sure he cannot weep ’t back again.

You have said, sir. We looked not for Mark Antony here. Pray you, is he married to Cleopatra?

Caesar’s sister is called Octavia.

True, sir. She was the wife of Caius Marcellus.

But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.

Pray you, sir?

’Tis true.

Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.

If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so.

I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than the love of the parties.

I think so too. But you shall find the band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity. Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.

Who would not have his wife so?

Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish again. Then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Caesar, and, as I said before, that which is the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is. He married but his occasion here.

And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a health for you.

I shall take it, sir. We have used our throats in Egypt.

Come, let’s away.

ACT II, SCENE VII. On board Pompey’s Galley, lying near Misenum.

Music. Enter two or three Servants with a banquet.

FIRST SERVANT.

Here they’ll be, man. Some o’ their plants are ill-rooted already; the least wind i’ th’ world will blow them down.

SECOND SERVANT.

Lepidus is high-coloured.

FIRST SERVANT.

They have made him drink alms-drink.

SECOND SERVANT.

As they pinch one another by the disposition, he cries out “no more”, reconciles them to his entreaty and himself to th’ drink.

FIRST SERVANT.

But it raises the greater war between him and his discretion.

SECOND SERVANT.

Why, this it is to have a name in great men’s fellowship. I had as lief have a reed that will do me no service as a partisan I could not heave.

FIRST SERVANT.

To be called into a huge sphere, and not to be seen to move in ’t, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks.

A sennet sounded. Enter Caesar, Antony, Pompey, Lepidus, Agrippa, Maecenas, Enobarbus, Menas with other Captains.

[_To Caesar_.] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o’ th’ Nile By certain scales i’ th’ pyramid; they know By th’ height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells, The more it promises. As it ebbs, the seedsman Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain, And shortly comes to harvest.

You’ve strange serpents there?

Ay, Lepidus.

Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the operation of your sun; so is your crocodile.

They are so.

Sit, and some wine! A health to Lepidus!

I am not so well as I should be, but I’ll ne’er out.

Not till you have slept. I fear me you’ll be in till then.

Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies’ pyramises are very goodly things. Without contradiction I have heard that.

[_Aside to Pompey_.] Pompey, a word.

[_Aside to Menas_.] Say in mine ear what is ’t?

[_Whispers in ’s ear._] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, captain, And hear me speak a word.

[_Aside to Menas._] Forbear me till anon.— This wine for Lepidus!

What manner o’ thing is your crocodile?

It is shaped, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as it hath breadth. It is just so high as it is, and moves with it own organs. It lives by that which nourisheth it, and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates.

What colour is it of?

Of its own colour too.

’Tis a strange serpent.

’Tis so, and the tears of it are wet.

Will this description satisfy him?

With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very epicure.

[_Aside to Menas._] Go hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that? Away! Do as I bid you.—Where’s this cup I called for?

[_Aside to Pompey_.] If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear me, Rise from thy stool.

[_Aside to Menas_.] I think thou’rt mad.

[_Rises and walks aside._]

The matter?

I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.

Thou hast served me with much faith. What’s else to say?— Be jolly, lords.

These quicksands, Lepidus, Keep off them, for you sink.

Wilt thou be lord of all the world?

What sayst thou?

Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That’s twice.

How should that be?

But entertain it, And though you think me poor, I am the man Will give thee all the world.

Hast thou drunk well?

No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup. Thou art, if thou dar’st be, the earthly Jove. Whate’er the ocean pales or sky inclips Is thine, if thou wilt have’t.

Show me which way.

These three world-sharers, these competitors, Are in thy vessel. Let me cut the cable, And when we are put off, fall to their throats. All then is thine.

Ah, this thou shouldst have done And not have spoke on ’t! In me ’tis villainy; In thee ’t had been good service. Thou must know ’Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour; Mine honour it. Repent that e’er thy tongue Hath so betray’d thine act. Being done unknown, I should have found it afterwards well done, But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.

[_Aside_.] For this, I’ll never follow thy palled fortunes more. Who seeks, and will not take when once ’tis offered, Shall never find it more.

This health to Lepidus!

Bear him ashore. I’ll pledge it for him, Pompey.

Here’s to thee, Menas!

Enobarbus, welcome!

Fill till the cup be hid.

There’s a strong fellow, Menas.

[_Pointing to the servant who carries off Lepidus._]

’A bears the third part of the world, man. Seest not?

The third part, then, is drunk. Would it were all, That it might go on wheels!

Drink thou. Increase the reels.

This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.

It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho! Here is to Caesar!

I could well forbear’t. It’s monstrous labour when I wash my brain And it grows fouler.

Be a child o’ the time.

Possess it, I’ll make answer. But I had rather fast from all, four days, Than drink so much in one.

[_To Antony_.] Ha, my brave emperor, Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals And celebrate our drink?

Let’s ha’t, good soldier.

Come, let’s all take hands Till that the conquering wine hath steeped our sense In soft and delicate Lethe.

All take hands. Make battery to our ears with the loud music, The while I’ll place you; then the boy shall sing. The holding every man shall beat as loud As his strong sides can volley.

Music plays. Enobarbus places them hand in hand.

THE SONG.

Come, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne! In thy vats our cares be drowned, With thy grapes our hairs be crowned. Cup us till the world go round, Cup us till the world go round!

What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother, Let me request you off. Our graver business Frowns at this levity.—Gentle lords, let’s part. You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue Splits what it speaks. The wild disguise hath almost Anticked us all. What needs more words. Good night. Good Antony, your hand.

I’ll try you on the shore.

And shall, sir. Give’s your hand.

O Antony, You have my father’s house. But, what? We are friends. Come, down into the boat.

Take heed you fall not.

[_Exeunt Pompey, Caesar, Antony and Attendants._]

Menas, I’ll not on shore.

No, to my cabin. These drums, these trumpets, flutes! What! Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell To these great fellows. Sound and be hanged, sound out!

[_Sound a flourish with drums._]

Hoo, says ’a! There’s my cap!

Hoo! Noble captain, come.

ACT III

SCENE I. A plain in Syria.

Enter Ventidius as it were in triumph, with Silius and other Romans, Officers and Soldiers; the dead body of Pacorus borne before him.

Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck, and now Pleased Fortune does of Marcus Crassus’ death Make me revenger. Bear the king’s son’s body Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes, Pays this for Marcus Crassus.

Noble Ventidius, Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm, The fugitive Parthians follow. Spur through Media, Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither The routed fly. So thy grand captain Antony Shall set thee on triumphant chariots, and Put garlands on thy head.

O Silius, Silius, I have done enough. A lower place, note well, May make too great an act. For learn this, Silius: Better to leave undone than by our deed Acquire too high a fame when him we serve’s away. Caesar and Antony have ever won More in their officer, than person. Sossius, One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant, For quick accumulation of renown, Which he achieved by th’ minute, lost his favour. Who does i’ th’ wars more than his captain can Becomes his captain’s captain; and ambition, The soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss Than gain which darkens him. I could do more to do Antonius good, But ’twould offend him, and in his offence Should my performance perish.

Thou hast, Ventidius, that Without the which a soldier and his sword Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony?

I’ll humbly signify what in his name, That magical word of war, we have effected; How, with his banners, and his well-paid ranks, The ne’er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia We have jaded out o’ th’ field.

Where is he now?

He purposeth to Athens, whither, with what haste The weight we must convey with ’s will permit, We shall appear before him.—On there, pass along!

ACT III, SCENE II. Rome. An Ante-chamber in Caesar’s house.

Enter Agrippa at one door, Enobarbus at another.

What, are the brothers parted?

They have dispatched with Pompey; he is gone. The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps To part from Rome. Caesar is sad, and Lepidus, Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled With the greensickness.

’Tis a noble Lepidus.

A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!

Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!

Caesar? Why he’s the Jupiter of men.

What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter.

Spake you of Caesar? How, the nonpareil!

O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird!

Would you praise Caesar, say “Caesar”. Go no further.

Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.

But he loves Caesar best, yet he loves Antony. Hoo! Hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number—hoo!— His love to Antony. But as for Caesar, Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.

Both he loves.

They are his shards, and he their beetle.

[_Trumpets within._]

So, This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.

Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.

Enter Caesar, Antony, Lepidus and Octavia.

No further, sir.

You take from me a great part of myself. Use me well in’t. Sister, prove such a wife As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest bond Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony, Let not the piece of virtue which is set Betwixt us, as the cement of our love To keep it builded, be the ram to batter The fortress of it. For better might we Have loved without this mean, if on both parts This be not cherished.

Make me not offended In your distrust.

I have said.

You shall not find, Though you be therein curious, the least cause For what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you, And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends. We will here part.

Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well.

My noble brother!

The April’s in her eyes. It is love’s spring, And these the showers to bring it on.—Be cheerful.

Sir, look well to my husband’s house, and—

What, Octavia?

I’ll tell you in your ear.

Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can Her heart inform her tongue—the swan’s-down feather, That stands upon the swell at the full of tide, And neither way inclines.

[_Aside to Agrippa_.] Will Caesar weep?

[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] He has a cloud in ’s face.

[_Aside to Agrippa_.] He were the worse for that were he a horse; So is he, being a man.

[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] Why, Enobarbus, When Antony found Julius Caesar dead, He cried almost to roaring, and he wept When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.

[_Aside to Agrippa_.] That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum; What willingly he did confound he wailed, Believe ’t, till I weep too.

No, sweet Octavia, You shall hear from me still. The time shall not Outgo my thinking on you.

Come, sir, come, I’ll wrestle with you in my strength of love. Look, here I have you, thus I let you go, And give you to the gods.

Adieu, be happy!

Let all the number of the stars give light To thy fair way!

Farewell, farewell!

[_Kisses Octavia._]

[_Trumpets sound. Exeunt._]

ACT III, SCENE III. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Alexas.

Where is the fellow?

Half afeared to come.

Go to, go to.

Enter a Messenger as before.

Come hither, sir.

Good majesty, Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you But when you are well pleased.

That Herod’s head I’ll have! But how, when Antony is gone, Through whom I might command it?—Come thou near.

Most gracious majesty!

Didst thou behold Octavia?

Ay, dread queen.

Madam, in Rome I looked her in the face, and saw her led Between her brother and Mark Antony.

Is she as tall as me?

She is not, madam.

Didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongued or low?

Madam, I heard her speak. She is low-voiced.

That’s not so good. He cannot like her long.

Like her? O Isis! ’Tis impossible.

I think so, Charmian: dull of tongue and dwarfish! What majesty is in her gait? Remember, If e’er thou look’dst on majesty.

She creeps. Her motion and her station are as one. She shows a body rather than a life, A statue than a breather.

Is this certain?

Or I have no observance.

Three in Egypt Cannot make better note.

He’s very knowing; I do perceive’t. There’s nothing in her yet. The fellow has good judgment.

Guess at her years, I prithee.

Madam, She was a widow.

Widow! Charmian, hark!

And I do think she’s thirty.

Bear’st thou her face in mind? Is’t long or round?

Round even to faultiness.

For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so. Her hair, what colour?

Brown, madam, and her forehead As low as she would wish it.

There’s gold for thee. Thou must not take my former sharpness ill. I will employ thee back again; I find thee Most fit for business. Go make thee ready; Our letters are prepared.

[_Exit Messenger._]

A proper man.

Indeed, he is so. I repent me much That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him, This creature’s no such thing.

Nothing, madam.

The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.

Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend, And serving you so long!

I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian. But ’tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me Where I will write. All may be well enough.

I warrant you, madam.

ACT III, SCENE IV. Athens. A Room in Antony’s House.

Enter Antony and Octavia.

Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that— That were excusable, that and thousands more Of semblable import—but he hath waged New wars ’gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it To public ear; Spoke scantly of me; when perforce he could not But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly He vented them; most narrow measure lent me; When the best hint was given him, he not took ’t, Or did it from his teeth.

O, my good lord, Believe not all, or if you must believe, Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady, If this division chance, ne’er stood between, Praying for both parts. The good gods will mock me presently When I shall pray “O, bless my lord and husband!” Undo that prayer by crying out as loud “O, bless my brother!” Husband win, win brother, Prays and destroys the prayer; no midway ’Twixt these extremes at all.

Gentle Octavia, Let your best love draw to that point which seeks Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour, I lose myself; better I were not yours Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested, Yourself shall go between’s. The meantime, lady, I’ll raise the preparation of a war Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste, So your desires are yours.

Thanks to my lord. The Jove of power make me, most weak, most weak, Your reconciler! Wars ’twixt you twain would be As if the world should cleave, and that slain men Should solder up the rift.

When it appears to you where this begins, Turn your displeasure that way, for our faults Can never be so equal that your love Can equally move with them. Provide your going; Choose your own company, and command what cost Your heart has mind to.

ACT III, SCENE V. Athens. Another Room in Antony’s House.

Enter Enobarbus and Eros meeting.

How now, friend Eros?

There’s strange news come, sir.

What, man?

Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey.

This is old. What is the success?

Caesar, having made use of him in the wars ’gainst Pompey, presently denied him rivality; would not let him partake in the glory of the action, and, not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him. So the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine.

Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no more, And throw between them all the food thou hast, They’ll grind the one the other. Where’s Antony?

He’s walking in the garden, thus, and spurns The rush that lies before him; cries “Fool Lepidus!” And threats the throat of that his officer That murdered Pompey.

Our great navy’s rigged.

For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius: My lord desires you presently. My news I might have told hereafter.

’Twill be naught, But let it be. Bring me to Antony.

Come, sir.

ACT III, SCENE VI. Rome. A Room in Caesar’s House.

Enter Agrippa, Maecenas and Caesar.

Contemning Rome, he has done all this, and more In Alexandria. Here’s the manner of ’t: I’ th’ market-place, on a tribunal silvered, Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold Were publicly enthroned. At the feet sat Caesarion, whom they call my father’s son, And all the unlawful issue that their lust Since then hath made between them. Unto her He gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia, Absolute queen.

This in the public eye?

I’ th’ common showplace where they exercise. His sons he there proclaimed the kings of kings: Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assigned Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She In th’ habiliments of the goddess Isis That day appeared, and oft before gave audience, As ’tis reported, so.

Let Rome be thus informed.

Who, queasy with his insolence already, Will their good thoughts call from him.

The people knows it and have now received His accusations.

Who does he accuse?

Caesar, and that, having in Sicily Sextus Pompeius spoiled, we had not rated him His part o’ th’ isle. Then does he say he lent me Some shipping, unrestored. Lastly, he frets That Lepidus of the triumvirate Should be deposed and, being, that we detain All his revenue.

Sir, this should be answered.

’Tis done already, and messenger gone. I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel, That he his high authority abused, And did deserve his change. For what I have conquered I grant him part; but then in his Armenia And other of his conquered kingdoms, I Demand the like.

He’ll never yield to that.

Nor must not then be yielded to in this.

Enter Octavia with her train.

Hail, Caesar, and my lord! Hail, most dear Caesar!

That ever I should call thee castaway!

You have not called me so, nor have you cause.

Why have you stolen upon us thus? You come not Like Caesar’s sister. The wife of Antony Should have an army for an usher, and The neighs of horse to tell of her approach Long ere she did appear. The trees by th’ way Should have borne men, and expectation fainted, Longing for what it had not. Nay, the dust Should have ascended to the roof of heaven, Raised by your populous troops. But you are come A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, Is often left unloved. We should have met you By sea and land, supplying every stage With an augmented greeting.

Good my lord, To come thus was I not constrained, but did it On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony, Hearing that you prepared for war, acquainted My grieved ear withal, whereon I begged His pardon for return.

Which soon he granted, Being an abstract ’tween his lust and him.

Do not say so, my lord.

I have eyes upon him, And his affairs come to me on the wind. Where is he now?

My lord, in Athens.

No, my most wronged sister. Cleopatra Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire Up to a whore, who now are levying The kings o’ th’ earth for war. He hath assembled Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas; King Manchus of Arabia; King of Pont; Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas, The kings of Mede and Lycaonia, With a more larger list of sceptres.

Ay me, most wretched, That have my heart parted betwixt two friends That does afflict each other!

Welcome hither. Your letters did withhold our breaking forth Till we perceived both how you were wrong led And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart. Be you not troubled with the time, which drives O’er your content these strong necessities, But let determined things to destiny Hold unbewailed their way. Welcome to Rome, Nothing more dear to me. You are abused Beyond the mark of thought, and the high gods, To do you justice, make their ministers Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort, And ever welcome to us.

Welcome, lady.

Welcome, dear madam. Each heart in Rome does love and pity you. Only th’ adulterous Antony, most large In his abominations, turns you off And gives his potent regiment to a trull That noises it against us.

Is it so, sir?

Most certain. Sister, welcome. Pray you Be ever known to patience. My dear’st sister!

ACT III, SCENE VII. Antony’s Camp near the Promontory of Actium.

Enter Cleopatra and Enobarbus.

I will be even with thee, doubt it not.

But why, why, why?

Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars And say’st it is not fit.

Well, is it, is it?

Is ’t not denounced against us? Why should not we Be there in person?

Well, I could reply: If we should serve with horse and mares together, The horse were merely lost. The mares would bear A soldier and his horse.

What is’t you say?

Your presence needs must puzzle Antony, Take from his heart, take from his brain, from ’s time, What should not then be spared. He is already Traduced for levity, and ’tis said in Rome That Photinus, an eunuch, and your maids Manage this war.

Sink Rome, and their tongues rot That speak against us! A charge we bear i’ th’ war, And, as the president of my kingdom, will Appear there for a man. Speak not against it. I will not stay behind.

Enter Antony and Canidius.

Nay, I have done. Here comes the Emperor.

Is it not strange, Canidius, That from Tarentum and Brundusium He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea And take in Toryne?—You have heard on ’t, sweet?

Celerity is never more admired Than by the negligent.

A good rebuke, Which might have well becomed the best of men To taunt at slackness.—Canidius, we Will fight with him by sea.

By sea, what else?

Why will my lord do so?

For that he dares us to ’t.

So hath my lord dared him to single fight.

Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia, Where Caesar fought with Pompey. But these offers, Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off, And so should you.

Your ships are not well manned, Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people Engrossed by swift impress. In Caesar’s fleet Are those that often have ’gainst Pompey fought. Their ships are yare, yours heavy. No disgrace Shall fall you for refusing him at sea, Being prepared for land.

By sea, by sea.

Most worthy sir, you therein throw away The absolute soldiership you have by land; Distract your army, which doth most consist Of war-marked footmen; leave unexecuted Your own renowned knowledge; quite forgo The way which promises assurance; and Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard From firm security.

I’ll fight at sea.

I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.

Our overplus of shipping will we burn, And with the rest full-manned, from th’ head of Actium Beat th’ approaching Caesar. But if we fail, We then can do ’t at land.

Enter a Messenger.

Thy business?

The news is true, my lord; he is descried. Caesar has taken Toryne.

Can he be there in person? ’Tis impossible; Strange that his power should be. Canidius, Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land, And our twelve thousand horse. We’ll to our ship. Away, my Thetis!

Enter a Soldier.

How now, worthy soldier?

O noble emperor, do not fight by sea. Trust not to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt This sword and these my wounds? Let th’ Egyptians And the Phoenicians go a-ducking. We Have used to conquer standing on the earth And fighting foot to foot.

Well, well, away.

[_Exeunt Antony, Cleopatra and Enobarbus._]

By Hercules, I think I am i’ th’ right.

Soldier, thou art. But his whole action grows Not in the power on ’t. So our leader’s led, And we are women’s men.

You keep by land The legions and the horse whole, do you not?

Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius, Publicola, and Caelius are for sea, But we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar’s Carries beyond belief.

While he was yet in Rome, His power went out in such distractions as Beguiled all spies.

Who’s his lieutenant, hear you?

They say one Taurus.

Well I know the man.

Enter a Messenger.

The Emperor calls Canidius.

With news the time’s with labour, and throes forth Each minute some.

ACT III, SCENE VIII. A plain near Actium.

Enter Caesar with his army and Taurus marching.

My lord?

Strike not by land; keep whole; provoke not battle Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed The prescript of this scroll. Our fortune lies Upon this jump.

ACT III, SCENE IX. Another part of the Plain.

Enter Antony and Enobarbus.

Set we our squadrons on yon side o’ th’ hill In eye of Caesar’s battle, from which place We may the number of the ships behold And so proceed accordingly.

ACT III, SCENE X. Another part of the Plain.

Canidius marching with his land army one way over the stage, and Taurus, the Lieutenant of Caesar, with his Army, the other way. After their going in, is heard the noise of a sea fight.

Alarum. Enter Enobarbus.

Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer. Th’ Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, With all their sixty, fly and turn the rudder. To see ’t mine eyes are blasted.

Enter Scarus.

Gods and goddesses, All the whole synod of them!

What’s thy passion?

The greater cantle of the world is lost With very ignorance. We have kissed away Kingdoms and provinces.

How appears the fight?

On our side, like the tokened pestilence, Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt, Whom leprosy o’ertake, i’ th’ midst o’ th’ fight, When vantage like a pair of twins appeared, Both as the same—or, rather, ours the elder— The breeze upon her, like a cow in June, Hoists sails and flies.

That I beheld. Mine eyes did sicken at the sight and could not Endure a further view.

She once being loofed, The noble ruin of her magic, Antony, Claps on his sea-wing and, like a doting mallard, Leaving the fight in height, flies after her. I never saw an action of such shame. Experience, manhood, honour, ne’er before Did violate so itself.

Alack, alack!

Enter Canidius.

Our fortune on the sea is out of breath And sinks most lamentably. Had our general Been what he knew himself, it had gone well. O, he has given example for our flight Most grossly by his own!

Ay, are you thereabouts? Why, then, good night indeed.

Toward Peloponnesus are they fled.

’Tis easy to’t, and there I will attend What further comes.

To Caesar will I render My legions and my horse. Six kings already Show me the way of yielding.

I’ll yet follow The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason Sits in the wind against me.

ACT III, SCENE XI. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Antony with attendants.

Hark, the land bids me tread no more upon’t. It is ashamed to bear me. Friends, come hither. I am so lated in the world that I Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship Laden with gold. Take that, divide it. Fly, And make your peace with Caesar.

Fly? Not we.

I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone. I have myself resolved upon a course Which has no need of you. Be gone. My treasure’s in the harbour. Take it. O, I followed that I blush to look upon. My very hairs do mutiny, for the white Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them For fear and doting. Friends, be gone. You shall Have letters from me to some friends that will Sweep your way for you. Pray you, look not sad, Nor make replies of loathness. Take the hint Which my despair proclaims. Let that be left Which leaves itself. To the sea-side straightway. I will possess you of that ship and treasure. Leave me, I pray, a little—pray you, now, Nay, do so; for indeed I have lost command. Therefore I pray you. I’ll see you by and by.

[_Sits down._]

Enter Cleopatra led by Charmian, Iras and Eros.

Nay, gentle madam, to him! Comfort him.

Do, most dear queen.

Do! Why, what else?

Let me sit down. O Juno!

No, no, no, no, no.

See you here, sir?

O, fie, fie, fie!

Madam, O good empress!

Sir, sir!

Yes, my lord, yes. He at Philippi kept His sword e’en like a dancer, while I struck The lean and wrinkled Cassius, and ’twas I That the mad Brutus ended. He alone Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had In the brave squares of war. Yet now—no matter.

Ah, stand by.

The Queen, my lord, the Queen!

Go to him, madam; speak to him. He is unqualitied with very shame.

Well then, sustain me. O!

Most noble sir, arise. The Queen approaches. Her head’s declined, and death will seize her but Your comfort makes the rescue.

I have offended reputation, A most unnoble swerving.

Sir, the Queen.

O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See How I convey my shame out of thine eyes By looking back what I have left behind ’Stroyed in dishonour.

O my lord, my lord, Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought You would have followed.

Egypt, thou knew’st too well My heart was to thy rudder tied by th’ strings, And thou shouldst tow me after. O’er my spirit Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods Command me.

O, my pardon!

Now I must To the young man send humble treaties, dodge And palter in the shifts of lowness, who With half the bulk o’ th’ world played as I pleased, Making and marring fortunes. You did know How much you were my conqueror, and that My sword, made weak by my affection, would Obey it on all cause.

Pardon, pardon!

Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss. Even this repays me. We sent our schoolmaster. Is he come back? Love, I am full of lead. Some wine Within there, and our viands! Fortune knows We scorn her most when most she offers blows.

ACT III, SCENE XII. Caesar’s camp in Egypt.

Enter Caesar, Agrippa, Dolabella with others.

Let him appear that’s come from Antony. Know you him?

Caesar, ’tis his schoolmaster— An argument that he is plucked, when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, Which had superfluous kings for messengers Not many moons gone by.

Enter Ambassador from Anthony.

Approach, and speak.

Such as I am, I come from Antony. I was of late as petty to his ends As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf To his grand sea.

Be’t so. Declare thine office.

Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and Requires to live in Egypt, which not granted, He lessens his requests, and to thee sues To let him breathe between the heavens and earth, A private man in Athens. This for him. Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness, Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs, Now hazarded to thy grace.

For Antony, I have no ears to his request. The queen Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend, Or take his life there. This if she perform, She shall not sue unheard. So to them both.

Fortune pursue thee!

Bring him through the bands.

[_Exit Ambassador, attended._]

[_To Thidias_.] To try thy eloquence now ’tis time. Dispatch. From Antony win Cleopatra. Promise, And in our name, what she requires; add more, From thine invention, offers. Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure The ne’er-touch’d vestal. Try thy cunning, Thidias; Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we Will answer as a law.

Caesar, I go.

Observe how Antony becomes his flaw, And what thou think’st his very action speaks In every power that moves.

Caesar, I shall.

ACT III, SCENE XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian and Iras.

What shall we do, Enobarbus?

Think, and die.

Is Antony or we in fault for this?

Antony only, that would make his will Lord of his reason. What though you fled From that great face of war, whose several ranges Frighted each other? Why should he follow? The itch of his affection should not then Have nicked his captainship, at such a point, When half to half the world opposed, he being The mered question. ’Twas a shame no less Than was his loss, to course your flying flags And leave his navy gazing.

Prithee, peace.

Enter the Ambassador with Antony.

Is that his answer?

Ay, my lord.

The Queen shall then have courtesy, so she Will yield us up.

He says so.

Let her know’t.— To the boy Caesar send this grizzled head, And he will fill thy wishes to the brim With principalities.

That head, my lord?

To him again. Tell him he wears the rose Of youth upon him, from which the world should note Something particular: his coin, ships, legions, May be a coward’s; whose ministers would prevail Under the service of a child as soon As i’ th’ command of Caesar. I dare him therefore To lay his gay comparisons apart, And answer me declined, sword against sword, Ourselves alone. I’ll write it. Follow me.

[_Exeunt Antony and Ambassador._]

Yes, like enough high-battled Caesar will Unstate his happiness, and be staged to th’ show Against a sworder! I see men’s judgments are A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them To suffer all alike. That he should dream, Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued His judgment too.

Enter a Servant.

A messenger from Caesar.

What, no more ceremony? See, my women, Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneeled unto the buds. Admit him, sir.

[_Exit Servant._]

[_Aside_.] Mine honesty and I begin to square. The loyalty well held to fools does make Our faith mere folly. Yet he that can endure To follow with allegiance a fallen lord Does conquer him that did his master conquer, And earns a place i’ th’ story.

Enter Thidias.

Caesar’s will?

Hear it apart.

None but friends. Say boldly.

So haply are they friends to Antony.

He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has, Or needs not us. If Caesar please, our master Will leap to be his friend. For us, you know Whose he is we are, and that is Caesar’s.

So.— Thus then, thou most renowned: Caesar entreats Not to consider in what case thou stand’st Further than he is Caesar.

Go on; right royal.

He knows that you embrace not Antony As you did love, but as you feared him.

The scars upon your honour, therefore, he Does pity as constrained blemishes, Not as deserved.

He is a god and knows What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded, But conquered merely.

[_Aside_.] To be sure of that, I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for Thy dearest quit thee.

[_Exit Enobarbus._]

Shall I say to Caesar What you require of him? For he partly begs To be desired to give. It much would please him That of his fortunes you should make a staff To lean upon. But it would warm his spirits To hear from me you had left Antony, And put yourself under his shroud, The universal landlord.

What’s your name?

My name is Thidias.

Most kind messenger, Say to great Caesar this in deputation: I kiss his conqu’ring hand. Tell him I am prompt To lay my crown at’s feet, and there to kneel. Tell him, from his all-obeying breath I hear The doom of Egypt.

’Tis your noblest course. Wisdom and fortune combating together, If that the former dare but what it can, No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay My duty on your hand.

Your Caesar’s father oft, When he hath mused of taking kingdoms in, Bestowed his lips on that unworthy place As it rained kisses.

Enter Antony and Enobarbus.

Favours, by Jove that thunders! What art thou, fellow?

One that but performs The bidding of the fullest man and worthiest To have command obeyed.

[_Aside_.] You will be whipped.

Approach there.—Ah, you kite!—Now, gods and devils, Authority melts from me. Of late when I cried “Ho!” Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth And cry “Your will?” Have you no ears? I am Antony yet.

Enter Servants.

Take hence this jack and whip him.

’Tis better playing with a lion’s whelp Than with an old one dying.

Moon and stars! Whip him. Were’t twenty of the greatest tributaries That do acknowledge Caesar, should I find them So saucy with the hand of she here—what’s her name Since she was Cleopatra? Whip him, fellows, Till like a boy you see him cringe his face And whine aloud for mercy. Take him hence.

Mark Antony—

Tug him away. Being whipp’d, Bring him again. This jack of Caesar’s shall Bear us an errand to him.

[_Exeunt Servants with Thidias._]

You were half blasted ere I knew you. Ha! Have I my pillow left unpressed in Rome, Forborne the getting of a lawful race, And by a gem of women, to be abused By one that looks on feeders?

Good my lord—

You have been a boggler ever. But when we in our viciousness grow hard— O misery on’t!—the wise gods seal our eyes, In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us Adore our errors, laugh at’s while we strut To our confusion.

O, is’t come to this?

I found you as a morsel cold upon Dead Caesar’s trencher; nay, you were a fragment Of Gneius Pompey’s, besides what hotter hours, Unregistered in vulgar fame, you have Luxuriously pick’d out. For I am sure, Though you can guess what temperance should be, You know not what it is.

Wherefore is this?

To let a fellow that will take rewards And say “God quit you!” be familiar with My playfellow, your hand, this kingly seal And plighter of high hearts! O that I were Upon the hill of Basan, to outroar The horned herd! For I have savage cause, And to proclaim it civilly were like A haltered neck which does the hangman thank For being yare about him.

Enter a Servant with Thidias.

Is he whipped?

Soundly, my lord.

Cried he? And begged he pardon?

He did ask favour.

If that thy father live, let him repent Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry To follow Caesar in his triumph, since Thou hast been whipped for following him. Henceforth The white hand of a lady fever thee; Shake thou to look on’t. Get thee back to Caesar; Tell him thy entertainment. Look thou say He makes me angry with him; for he seems Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am, Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry, And at this time most easy ’tis to do’t, When my good stars that were my former guides Have empty left their orbs and shot their fires Into th’ abysm of hell. If he mislike My speech and what is done, tell him he has Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture, As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou. Hence with thy stripes, be gone.

[_Exit Thidias._]

Have you done yet?

Alack, our terrene moon is now eclipsed, And it portends alone the fall of Antony.

I must stay his time.

To flatter Caesar, would you mingle eyes With one that ties his points?

Not know me yet?

Cold-hearted toward me?

Ah, dear, if I be so, From my cold heart let heaven engender hail And poison it in the source, and the first stone Drop in my neck; as it determines, so Dissolve my life! The next Caesarion smite, Till, by degrees the memory of my womb, Together with my brave Egyptians all, By the discandying of this pelleted storm, Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile Have buried them for prey!

I am satisfied. Caesar sits down in Alexandria, where I will oppose his fate. Our force by land Hath nobly held; our severed navy too Have knit again, and fleet, threat’ning most sea-like. Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady? If from the field I shall return once more To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood. I and my sword will earn our chronicle. There’s hope in’t yet.

That’s my brave lord!

I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously. For when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests. But now I’ll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me. Come, Let’s have one other gaudy night. Call to me All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more Let’s mock the midnight bell.

It is my birthday. I had thought t’have held it poor, but since my lord Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.

We will yet do well.

Call all his noble captains to my lord.

Do so; we’ll speak to them; and tonight I’ll force The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen, There’s sap in’t yet. The next time I do fight I’ll make Death love me, for I will contend Even with his pestilent scythe.

[_Exeunt all but Enobarbus._]

Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frighted out of fear, and in that mood The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still A diminution in our captain’s brain Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek Some way to leave him.

ACT IV

SCENE I. Caesar’s Camp at Alexandria.

Enter Caesar, Agrippa, and Maecenas, with his army. Caesar reading a letter.

He calls me boy, and chides as he had power To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger He hath whipped with rods; dares me to personal combat, Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know I have many other ways to die; meantime Laugh at his challenge.

Caesar must think, When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now Make boot of his distraction. Never anger Made good guard for itself.

Let our best heads Know that tomorrow the last of many battles We mean to fight. Within our files there are, Of those that served Mark Antony but late, Enough to fetch him in. See it done, And feast the army; we have store to do’t, And they have earned the waste. Poor Antony!

ACT IV, SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Antony, Cleopatra, Enobarbus, Charmian, Iras, Alexas with others.

He will not fight with me, Domitius?

Why should he not?

He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune, He is twenty men to one.

Tomorrow, soldier, By sea and land I’ll fight. Or I will live, Or bathe my dying honour in the blood Shall make it live again. Woo’t thou fight well?

I’ll strike, and cry “Take all.”

Well said. Come on. Call forth my household servants. Let’s tonight Be bounteous at our meal.—

Enter Servants.

Give me thy hand. Thou has been rightly honest; so hast thou, Thou, and thou, and thou. You have served me well, And kings have been your fellows.

[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] What means this?

[_Aside to Cleopatra_.] ’Tis one of those odd tricks which sorrow shoots Out of the mind.

And thou art honest too. I wish I could be made so many men, And all of you clapped up together in An Antony, that I might do you service So good as you have done.

ALL THE SERVANTS.

The gods forbid!

Well, my good fellows, wait on me tonight. Scant not my cups, and make as much of me As when mine empire was your fellow too And suffered my command.

[_Aside to Enobarbus_.] What does he mean?

[_Aside to Cleopatra_.] To make his followers weep.

Tend me tonight; May be it is the period of your duty. Haply you shall not see me more, or if, A mangled shadow. Perchance tomorrow You’ll serve another master. I look on you As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends, I turn you not away, but, like a master Married to your good service, stay till death. Tend me tonight two hours, I ask no more, And the gods yield you for’t!

What mean you, sir, To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep, And I, an ass, am onion-eyed. For shame, Transform us not to women.

Ho, ho, ho! Now the witch take me if I meant it thus! Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty friends, You take me in too dolorous a sense, For I spake to you for your comfort, did desire you To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts, I hope well of tomorrow, and will lead you Where rather I’ll expect victorious life Than death and honour. Let’s to supper, come, And drown consideration.

ACT IV, SCENE III. Alexandria. Before the Palace.

Enter a Company of Soldiers.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Brother, good night. Tomorrow is the day.

SECOND SOLDIER.

It will determine one way. Fare you well. Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?

FIRST SOLDIER.

Nothing. What news?

SECOND SOLDIER.

Belike ’tis but a rumour. Good night to you.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Well, sir, good night.

Enter two other Soldiers.

SECOND SOLDIER.

Soldiers, have careful watch.

THIRD SOLDIER.

And you. Good night, good night.

[_They place themselves in every corner of the stage._]

SECOND SOLDIER.

Here we. And if tomorrow Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope Our landmen will stand up.

FIRST SOLDIER.

’Tis a brave army, and full of purpose.

[_Music of the hautboys under the stage._]

SECOND SOLDIER.

Peace, what noise?

FIRST SOLDIER.

List, list!

SECOND SOLDIER.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Music i’ th’ air.

THIRD SOLDIER.

Under the earth.

FOURTH SOLDIER.

It signs well, does it not?

THIRD SOLDIER.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Peace, I say! What should this mean?

SECOND SOLDIER.

’Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony loved, Now leaves him.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Walk. Let’s see if other watchmen Do hear what we do.

[_They advance to another post._]

SECOND SOLDIER.

How now, masters!

How now! How now! Do you hear this?

FIRST SOLDIER.

Ay. Is’t not strange?

THIRD SOLDIER.

Do you hear, masters? Do you hear?

FIRST SOLDIER.

Follow the noise so far as we have quarter. Let’s see how it will give off.

Content. ’Tis strange.

ACT IV, SCENE IV. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Antony and Cleopatra with others.

Eros! Mine armour, Eros!

Sleep a little.

No, my chuck.—Eros! Come, mine armour, Eros!

Enter Eros with armour.

Come, good fellow, put thine iron on. If fortune be not ours today, it is Because we brave her. Come.

Nay, I’ll help too. What’s this for?

Ah, let be, let be! Thou art The armourer of my heart. False, false. This, this!

Sooth, la, I’ll help. Thus it must be.

Well, well, We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow? Go put on thy defences.

Briefly, sir.

Is not this buckled well?

Rarely, rarely. He that unbuckles this, till we do please To daff’t for our repose, shall hear a storm. Thou fumblest, Eros, and my queen’s a squire More tight at this than thou. Dispatch. O love, That thou couldst see my wars today, and knew’st The royal occupation, thou shouldst see A workman in’t.

Enter an Officer, armed.

Good morrow to thee. Welcome. Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge. To business that we love we rise betime And go to’t with delight.

A thousand, sir, Early though’t be, have on their riveted trim And at the port expect you.

[_Shout. Trumpets flourish._]

Enter other Captains and Soldiers.

The morn is fair. Good morrow, general.

Good morrow, general.

’Tis well blown, lads. This morning, like the spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes. So, so. Come, give me that. This way. Well said. Fare thee well, dame. Whate’er becomes of me, This is a soldier’s kiss. [_Kisses her._] Rebukeable And worthy shameful check it were, to stand On more mechanic compliment. I’ll leave thee Now like a man of steel.—You that will fight, Follow me close, I’ll bring you to’t. Adieu.

[_Exeunt Antony, Eros, Captains and Soldiers._]

Please you, retire to your chamber.

Lead me. He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might Determine this great war in single fight! Then Antony—but now—. Well, on.

ACT IV, SCENE V. Antony’s camp near Alexandria.

Trumpets sound. Enter Antony and Eros, a Soldier meeting them.

The gods make this a happy day to Antony!

Would thou and those thy scars had once prevailed To make me fight at land!

Hadst thou done so, The kings that have revolted and the soldier That has this morning left thee would have still Followed thy heels.

Who’s gone this morning?

Who? One ever near thee. Call for Enobarbus, He shall not hear thee, or from Caesar’s camp Say “I am none of thine.”

What sayest thou?

Sir, He is with Caesar.

Sir, his chests and treasure He has not with him.

Is he gone?

Most certain.

Go, Eros, send his treasure after. Do it. Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him— I will subscribe—gentle adieus and greetings. Say that I wish he never find more cause To change a master. O, my fortunes have Corrupted honest men! Dispatch.—Enobarbus!

ACT IV, SCENE VI. Alexandria. Caesar’s camp.

Flourish. Enter Agrippa, Caesar with Enobarbus and Dolabella.

Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight. Our will is Antony be took alive; Make it so known.

Caesar, I shall.

The time of universal peace is near. Prove this a prosp’rous day, the three-nooked world Shall bear the olive freely.

Enter a Messenger.

Antony Is come into the field.

Go charge Agrippa Plant those that have revolted in the van That Antony may seem to spend his fury Upon himself.

[_Exeunt Caesar and his Train._]

Alexas did revolt and went to Jewry on Affairs of Antony; there did dissuade Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar And leave his master Antony. For this pains Caesar hath hanged him. Canidius and the rest That fell away have entertainment but No honourable trust. I have done ill, Of which I do accuse myself so sorely That I will joy no more.

Enter a Soldier of Caesar’s.

Enobarbus, Antony Hath after thee sent all thy treasure, with His bounty overplus. The messenger Came on my guard, and at thy tent is now Unloading of his mules.

I give it you.

Mock not, Enobarbus. I tell you true. Best you safed the bringer Out of the host. I must attend mine office, Or would have done’t myself. Your emperor Continues still a Jove.

I am alone the villain of the earth, And feel I am so most. O Antony, Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid My better service, when my turpitude Thou dost so crown with gold! This blows my heart. If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean Shall outstrike thought, but thought will do’t, I feel. I fight against thee! No, I will go seek Some ditch wherein to die; the foul’st best fits My latter part of life.

ACT IV, SCENE VII. Field of battle between the Camps.

Alarum. Drums and Trumpets. Enter Agrippa and others.

Retire! We have engaged ourselves too far. Caesar himself has work, and our oppression Exceeds what we expected.

Alarums. Enter Antony and Scarus wounded.

O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed! Had we done so at first, we had droven them home With clouts about their heads.

Thou bleed’st apace.

I had a wound here that was like a T, But now ’tis made an H.

_Sounds retreat far off._

They do retire.

We’ll beat ’em into bench-holes. I have yet Room for six scotches more.

Enter Eros.

They are beaten, sir, and our advantage serves For a fair victory.

Let us score their backs And snatch ’em up as we take hares, behind. ’Tis sport to maul a runner.

I will reward thee Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold For thy good valour. Come thee on.

I’ll halt after.

ACT IV, SCENE VIII. Under the Walls of Alexandria.

Alarum. Enter Antony again in a march; Scarus with others.

We have beat him to his camp. Run one before And let the Queen know of our gests. Tomorrow, Before the sun shall see’s, we’ll spill the blood That has today escaped. I thank you all, For doughty-handed are you, and have fought Not as you served the cause, but as’t had been Each man’s like mine. You have shown all Hectors. Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends, Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears Wash the congealment from your wounds and kiss The honoured gashes whole.

Enter Cleopatra.

[_To Scarus_.] Give me thy hand. To this great fairy I’ll commend thy acts, Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o’ th’ world, Chain mine armed neck. Leap thou, attire and all, Through proof of harness to my heart, and there Ride on the pants triumphing.

Lord of lords! O infinite virtue, com’st thou smiling from The world’s great snare uncaught?

Mine nightingale, We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! Though grey Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha’ we A brain that nourishes our nerves and can Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man. Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand.— Kiss it, my warrior. He hath fought today As if a god, in hate of mankind, had Destroyed in such a shape.

I’ll give thee, friend, An armour all of gold. It was a king’s.

He has deserved it, were it carbuncled Like holy Phœbus’ car. Give me thy hand. Through Alexandria make a jolly march; Bear our hacked targets like the men that owe them. Had our great palace the capacity To camp this host, we all would sup together And drink carouses to the next day’s fate, Which promises royal peril.—Trumpeters, With brazen din blast you the city’s ear; Make mingle with our rattling tabourines, That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together, Applauding our approach.

ACT IV, SCENE IX. Caesar’s camp.

Enter a Sentry and his company. Enobarbus follows.

If we be not relieved within this hour, We must return to th’ court of guard. The night Is shiny, and they say we shall embattle By th’ second hour i’ th’ morn.

FIRST WATCH.

This last day was a shrewd one to’s.

O, bear me witness, night.—

SECOND WATCH.

What man is this?

FIRST WATCH.

Stand close and list him.

Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon, When men revolted shall upon record Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did Before thy face repent.

SECOND WATCH.

Peace! Hark further.

O sovereign mistress of true melancholy, The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me, That life, a very rebel to my will, May hang no longer on me. Throw my heart Against the flint and hardness of my fault, Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony, Nobler than my revolt is infamous, Forgive me in thine own particular, But let the world rank me in register A master-leaver and a fugitive. O Antony! O Antony!

FIRST WATCH.

Let’s speak to him.

Let’s hear him, for the things he speaks may concern Caesar.

SECOND WATCH.

Let’s do so. But he sleeps.

Swoons rather, for so bad a prayer as his Was never yet for sleep.

FIRST WATCH.

Go we to him.

SECOND WATCH.

Awake, sir, awake! Speak to us.

FIRST WATCH.

Hear you, sir?

The hand of death hath raught him.

[_Drums afar off._]

Hark! The drums Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him To th’ court of guard; he is of note. Our hour Is fully out.

SECOND WATCH.

Come on, then. He may recover yet.

[_Exeunt with the body._]

ACT IV, SCENE X. Ground between the two Camps.

Enter Antony and Scarus with their army.

Their preparation is today by sea; We please them not by land.

For both, my lord.

I would they’d fight i’ th’ fire or i’ th’ air; We’d fight there too. But this it is: our foot Upon the hills adjoining to the city Shall stay with us—order for sea is given; They have put forth the haven— Where their appointment we may best discover And look on their endeavour.

ACT IV, SCENE XI. Another part of the Ground.

Enter Caesar and his army.

But being charged, we will be still by land, Which, as I take’t, we shall, for his best force Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales, And hold our best advantage.

ACT IV, SCENE XII. Another part of the Ground.

Alarum afar off, as at a sea fight. Enter Antony and Scarus.

Yet they are not joined. Where yond pine does stand I shall discover all. I’ll bring thee word Straight how ’tis like to go.

Swallows have built In Cleopatra’s sails their nests. The augurs Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly, And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony Is valiant and dejected, and by starts His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear Of what he has and has not.

Enter Antony.

All is lost! This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me. My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder They cast their caps up and carouse together Like friends long lost. Triple-turned whore! ’Tis thou Hast sold me to this novice, and my heart Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly; For when I am revenged upon my charm, I have done all. Bid them all fly! Be gone!

[_Exit Scarus._]

O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more. Fortune and Antony part here; even here Do we shake hands. All come to this! The hearts That spanieled me at heels, to whom I gave Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets On blossoming Caesar, and this pine is barked That overtopped them all. Betray’d I am: O this false soul of Egypt! This grave charm, Whose eye becked forth my wars and called them home, Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end, Like a right gypsy hath at fast and loose Beguiled me to the very heart of loss. What, Eros, Eros!

Enter Cleopatra.

Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!

Why is my lord enraged against his love?

Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving And blemish Caesar’s triumph. Let him take thee And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians! Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot Of all thy sex; most monster-like be shown For poor’st diminutives, for dolts, and let Patient Octavia plough thy visage up With her prepared nails.

[_Exit Cleopatra._]

’Tis well thou’rt gone, If it be well to live; but better ’twere Thou fell’st into my fury, for one death Might have prevented many.—Eros, ho!— The shirt of Nessus is upon me. Teach me, Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage. Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o’ th’ moon, And with those hands that grasped the heaviest club Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die. To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall Under this plot. She dies for’t.—Eros, ho!

ACT IV, SCENE XIII. Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras and Mardian.

Help me, my women! O, he is more mad Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly Was never so embossed.

To th’ monument! There lock yourself and send him word you are dead. The soul and body rive not more in parting Than greatness going off.

To th’ monument! Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself. Say that the last I spoke was “Antony”, And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mardian, And bring me how he takes my death.—To th’ monument!

ACT IV, SCENE XIV. Alexandria. Another Room.

Enter Antony and Eros.

Eros, thou yet behold’st me?

Ay, noble lord.

Sometime we see a cloud that’s dragonish, A vapour sometime like a bear or lion, A towered citadel, a pendant rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon’t, that nod unto the world And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs. They are black vesper’s pageants.

Ay, my lord.

That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimns and makes it indistinct As water is in water.

It does, my lord.

My good knave Eros, now thy captain is Even such a body. Here I am Antony, Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave. I made these wars for Egypt, and the Queen, Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine, Which, whilst it was mine, had annexed unto’t A million more, now lost—she, Eros, has Packed cards with Caesar, and false-played my glory Unto an enemy’s triumph. Nay, weep not, gentle Eros. There is left us Ourselves to end ourselves.

Enter Mardian.

O, thy vile lady! She has robbed me of my sword.

No, Antony, My mistress loved thee and her fortunes mingled With thine entirely.

Hence, saucy eunuch! Peace! She hath betrayed me and shall die the death.

Death of one person can be paid but once, And that she has discharged. What thou wouldst do Is done unto thy hand. The last she spake Was “Antony! Most noble Antony!” Then in the midst a tearing groan did break The name of Antony; it was divided Between her heart and lips. She rendered life, Thy name so buried in her.

Dead, then?

Unarm, Eros. The long day’s task is done, And we must sleep.—That thou depart’st hence safe Does pay thy labour richly. Go.

[_Exit Mardian._]

Off, pluck off! The sevenfold shield of Ajax cannot keep The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides! Heart, once be stronger than thy continent; Crack thy frail case! Apace, Eros, apace! No more a soldier. Bruised pieces, go; You have been nobly borne. From me awhile.

[_Exit Eros._]

I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now All length is torture. Since the torch is out, Lie down, and stray no farther. Now all labour Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles Itself with strength. Seal then, and all is done. Eros!—I come, my queen.—Eros!—Stay for me. Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand, And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze. Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops, And all the haunt be ours.—Come, Eros, Eros!

Enter Eros.

What would my lord?

Since Cleopatra died, I have lived in such dishonour that the gods Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword Quartered the world, and o’er green Neptune’s back With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack The courage of a woman; less noble mind Than she which, by her death, our Caesar tells “I am conqueror of myself.” Thou art sworn, Eros, That when the exigent should come, which now Is come indeed, when I should see behind me Th’ inevitable prosecution of Disgrace and horror, that on my command Thou then wouldst kill me. Do’t. The time is come. Thou strik’st not me; ’tis Caesar thou defeat’st. Put colour in thy cheek.

The gods withhold me! Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts, Though enemy, lost aim and could not?

Eros, Wouldst thou be windowed in great Rome and see Thy master thus with pleached arms, bending down His corrigible neck, his face subdued To penetrative shame, whilst the wheeled seat Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded His baseness that ensued?

I would not see’t.

Come, then, for with a wound I must be cured. Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn Most useful for thy country.

O, sir, pardon me!

When I did make thee free, swor’st thou not then To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once, Or thy precedent services are all But accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come.

Turn from me then that noble countenance Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.

Lo thee!

[_Turning from him._]

My sword is drawn.

Then let it do at once The thing why thou hast drawn it.

My dear master, My captain and my emperor, let me say, Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.

’Tis said, man, and farewell.

Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?

Now, Eros.

Why, there then! [_kills himself_] Thus do I escape the sorrow Of Antony’s death.

Thrice nobler than myself! Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what I should and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros Have by their brave instruction got upon me A nobleness in record. But I will be A bridegroom in my death and run into’t As to a lover’s bed. Come then, and, Eros, Thy master dies thy scholar. To do thus

[_Falling on his sword._]

I learned of thee. How? Not dead? Not dead? The guard, ho! O, dispatch me!

Enter a company of the Guard, one of them Dercetus.

FIRST GUARD.

What’s the noise?

I have done my work ill, friends. O, make an end Of what I have begun.

SECOND GUARD.

The star is fallen.

FIRST GUARD.

And time is at his period.

Alas, and woe!

Let him that loves me strike me dead.

FIRST GUARD.

Not I.

SECOND GUARD.

Nor I.

THIRD GUARD.

Nor anyone.

[_Exeunt guard._]

Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly. This sword but shown to Caesar with this tidings, Shall enter me with him.

Enter Diomedes.

Where’s Antony?

There, Diomed, there.

Lives he? Wilt thou not answer, man?

[_Exit Dercetus._]

Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword and give me Sufficing strokes for death.

Most absolute lord, My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.

When did she send thee?

Now, my lord.

Where is she?

Locked in her monument. She had a prophesying fear Of what hath come to pass. For when she saw— Which never shall be found—you did suspect She had disposed with Caesar, and that your rage Would not be purged, she sent you word she was dead; But fearing since how it might work, hath sent Me to proclaim the truth, and I am come, I dread, too late.

Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I prithee.

What, ho! The emperor’s guard! The guard, what ho! Come, your lord calls!

Enter four or five of the Guard of Antony.

Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides. ’Tis the last service that I shall command you.

FIRST GUARD.

Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear All your true followers out.

Most heavy day!

Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate To grace it with your sorrows. Bid that welcome Which comes to punish us, and we punish it, Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up. I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends, And have my thanks for all.

[_Exeunt, bearing Antony._]

ACT IV, SCENE XV. Alexandria. A monument.

Enter Cleopatra and her maids aloft, with Charmian and Iras.

O Charmian, I will never go from hence.

Be comforted, dear madam.

No, I will not. All strange and terrible events are welcome, But comforts we despise. Our size of sorrow, Proportioned to our cause, must be as great As that which makes it.

Enter, below Diomedes.

How now! Is he dead?

His death’s upon him, but not dead. Look out o’ th’ other side your monument; His guard have brought him thither.

Enter, below Antony borne by the Guard.

O sun, Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in! Darkling stand The varying shore o’ th’ world. O Antony, Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian! Help, Iras, help! Help, friends below! Let’s draw him hither.

Peace! Not Caesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony, But Antony’s hath triumphed on itself.

So it should be, that none but Antony Should conquer Antony, but woe ’tis so!

I am dying, Egypt, dying. Only I here importune death awhile until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips.

I dare not, dear Dear my lord, pardon. I dare not, Lest I be taken. Not th’ imperious show Of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall Be brooched with me; if knife, drugs, serpents, have Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe. Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony— Help me, my women—we must draw thee up. Assist, good friends.

O, quick, or I am gone.

Here’s sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord! Our strength is all gone into heaviness; That makes the weight. Had I great Juno’s power, The strong-winged Mercury should fetch thee up And set thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a little; Wishers were ever fools. O come, come come,

[_They heave Antony aloft to Cleopatra._]

And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast lived; Quicken with kissing. Had my lips that power, Thus would I wear them out.

A heavy sight!

I am dying, Egypt, dying. Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.

No, let me speak, and let me rail so high That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel, Provoked by my offence.

One word, sweet queen: Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O!

They do not go together.

Gentle, hear me. None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.

My resolution and my hands I’ll trust; None about Caesar.

The miserable change now at my end Lament nor sorrow at, but please your thoughts In feeding them with those my former fortunes Wherein I lived the greatest prince o’ th’ world, The noblest; and do now not basely die, Not cowardly put off my helmet to My countryman; a Roman by a Roman Valiantly vanquished. Now my spirit is going; I can no more.

Noblest of men, woo’t die? Hast thou no care of me? Shall I abide In this dull world, which in thy absence is No better than a sty? O, see, my women,

[_ Antony dies._]

The crown o’ th’ earth doth melt.—My lord! O, withered is the garland of the war, The soldier’s pole is fallen; young boys and girls Are level now with men. The odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

O, quietness, lady!

She is dead too, our sovereign.

O madam, madam, madam!

Royal Egypt, Empress!

Peace, peace, Iras!

No more but e’en a woman, and commanded By such poor passion as the maid that milks And does the meanest chares. It were for me To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods, To tell them that this world did equal theirs Till they had stolen our jewel. All’s but naught; Patience is sottish, and impatience does Become a dog that’s mad. Then is it sin To rush into the secret house of death Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women? What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian? My noble girls! Ah, women, women! Look, Our lamp is spent, it’s out! Good sirs, take heart. We’ll bury him; and then, what’s brave, what’s noble, Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion And make death proud to take us. Come, away. This case of that huge spirit now is cold. Ah, women, women! Come, we have no friend But resolution and the briefest end.

[_Exeunt, bearing off Antony’s body._]

ACT V

SCENE I. Caesar’s Camp before Alexandria.

Enter Caesar, Agrippa, Dolabella, Maecenas, Gallus, Proculeius with his council of war.

Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield. Being so frustrate, tell him, he mocks The pauses that he makes.

Caesar, I shall.

Enter Dercetus with the sword of Antony.

Wherefore is that? And what art thou that dar’st Appear thus to us?

I am called Dercetus. Mark Antony I served, who best was worthy Best to be served. Whilst he stood up and spoke, He was my master, and I wore my life To spend upon his haters. If thou please To take me to thee, as I was to him I’ll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not, I yield thee up my life.

What is’t thou say’st?

I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead.

The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack. The round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony Is not a single doom; in the name lay A moiety of the world.

He is dead, Caesar, Not by a public minister of justice, Nor by a hired knife, but that self hand Which writ his honour in the acts it did Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it, Splitted the heart. This is his sword. I robbed his wound of it. Behold it stained With his most noble blood.

Look you sad, friends? The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings To wash the eyes of kings.

And strange it is That nature must compel us to lament Our most persisted deeds.

His taints and honours Waged equal with him.

A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity, but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touched.

When such a spacious mirror’s set before him, He needs must see himself.

O Antony, I have followed thee to this, but we do lance Diseases in our bodies. I must perforce Have shown to thee such a declining day Or look on thine. We could not stall together In the whole world. But yet let me lament With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts, That thou, my brother, my competitor In top of all design, my mate in empire, Friend and companion in the front of war, The arm of mine own body, and the heart Where mine his thoughts did kindle, that our stars, Unreconciliable, should divide Our equalness to this. Hear me, good friends—

Enter an Egyptian.

But I will tell you at some meeter season. The business of this man looks out of him; We’ll hear him what he says. Whence are you?

A poor Egyptian yet. The queen, my mistress, Confined in all she has, her monument, Of thy intents desires instruction, That she preparedly may frame herself To the way she’s forced to.

Bid her have good heart. She soon shall know of us, by some of ours, How honourable and how kindly we Determine for her. For Caesar cannot lean To be ungentle.

So the gods preserve thee!

Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say We purpose her no shame. Give her what comforts The quality of her passion shall require, Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke She do defeat us, for her life in Rome Would be eternal in our triumph. Go, And with your speediest bring us what she says And how you find of her.

Caesar, I shall.

[_Exit Proculeius._]

Gallus, go you along.

[_Exit Gallus._]

Where’s Dolabella, to second Proculeius?

Let him alone, for I remember now How he’s employed. He shall in time be ready. Go with me to my tent, where you shall see How hardly I was drawn into this war, How calm and gentle I proceeded still In all my writings. Go with me and see What I can show in this.

ACT V, SCENE II. Alexandria. A Room in the Monument.

Enter Cleopatra, Charmian and Iras.

My desolation does begin to make A better life. ’Tis paltry to be Caesar; Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave, A minister of her will. And it is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change, Which sleeps and never palates more the dung, The beggar’s nurse and Caesar’s.

Enter Proculeius.

Caesar sends greetings to the queen of Egypt, And bids thee study on what fair demands Thou mean’st to have him grant thee.

What’s thy name?

My name is Proculeius.

Antony Did tell me of you, bade me trust you, but I do not greatly care to be deceived That have no use for trusting. If your master Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him That majesty, to keep decorum, must No less beg than a kingdom. If he please To give me conquered Egypt for my son, He gives me so much of mine own as I Will kneel to him with thanks.

Be of good cheer. You are fallen into a princely hand; fear nothing. Make your full reference freely to my lord, Who is so full of grace that it flows over On all that need. Let me report to him Your sweet dependency, and you shall find A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness Where he for grace is kneeled to.

Pray you tell him I am his fortune’s vassal and I send him The greatness he has got. I hourly learn A doctrine of obedience, and would gladly Look him i’ th’ face.

This I’ll report, dear lady. Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied Of him that caused it.

Enter Gallus and Roman Soldiers.

You see how easily she may be surprised. Guard her till Caesar come.

Royal queen!

O Cleopatra, thou art taken, queen!

Quick, quick, good hands.

[_Drawing a dagger._]

Hold, worthy lady, hold!

[_Seizes and disarms her._]

Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this Relieved, but not betrayed.

What, of death too, That rids our dogs of languish?

Cleopatra, Do not abuse my master’s bounty by Th’ undoing of yourself. Let the world see His nobleness well acted, which your death Will never let come forth.

Where art thou, Death? Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a queen Worth many babes and beggars!

O, temperance, lady!

Sir, I will eat no meat; I’ll not drink, sir; If idle talk will once be necessary, I’ll not sleep neither. This mortal house I’ll ruin, Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I Will not wait pinioned at your master’s court, Nor once be chastised with the sober eye Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up And show me to the shouting varletry Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt Be gentle grave unto me! Rather on Nilus’ mud Lay me stark-naked, and let the water-flies Blow me into abhorring! Rather make My country’s high pyramides my gibbet And hang me up in chains!

You do extend These thoughts of horror further than you shall Find cause in Caesar.

Enter Dolabella.

Proculeius, What thou hast done thy master Caesar knows, And he hath sent for thee. For the queen, I’ll take her to my guard.

So, Dolabella, It shall content me best. Be gentle to her. [_To Cleopatra._] To Caesar I will speak what you shall please, If you’ll employ me to him.

Say I would die.

[_Exeunt Proculeius and Soldiers._]

Most noble empress, you have heard of me?

I cannot tell.

Assuredly you know me.

No matter, sir, what I have heard or known. You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams; Is’t not your trick?

I understand not, madam.

I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony. O, such another sleep, that I might see But such another man!

If it might please you—

His face was as the heavens, and therein stuck A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted The little O, the earth.

Most sovereign creature—

His legs bestrid the ocean; his reared arm Crested the world; his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in’t; an autumn ’twas That grew the more by reaping. His delights Were dolphin-like; they showed his back above The element they lived in. In his livery Walked crowns and crownets; realms and islands were As plates dropped from his pocket.

Think you there was or might be such a man As this I dreamt of?

Gentle madam, no.

You lie up to the hearing of the gods! But if there be nor ever were one such, It’s past the size of dreaming. Nature wants stuff To vie strange forms with fancy; yet t’ imagine An Antony were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy, Condemning shadows quite.

Hear me, good madam. Your loss is, as yourself, great; and you bear it As answering to the weight. Would I might never O’ertake pursued success, but I do feel, By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites My very heart at root.

I thank you, sir. Know you what Caesar means to do with me?

I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.

Nay, pray you, sir.

Though he be honourable—

He’ll lead me, then, in triumph.

Madam, he will. I know it.

Flourish. Enter Caesar, Proculeius, Gallus, Maecenas and others of his train.

Make way there! Caesar!

Which is the Queen of Egypt?

It is the Emperor, madam.

[_Cleopatra kneels._]

Arise, you shall not kneel. I pray you, rise. Rise, Egypt.

Sir, the gods Will have it thus. My master and my lord I must obey.

Take to you no hard thoughts. The record of what injuries you did us, Though written in our flesh, we shall remember As things but done by chance.

Sole sir o’ th’ world, I cannot project mine own cause so well To make it clear, but do confess I have Been laden with like frailties which before Have often shamed our sex.

Cleopatra, know We will extenuate rather than enforce. If you apply yourself to our intents, Which towards you are most gentle, you shall find A benefit in this change; but if you seek To lay on me a cruelty by taking Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself Of my good purposes, and put your children To that destruction which I’ll guard them from If thereon you rely. I’ll take my leave.

And may, through all the world. ’Tis yours, and we, Your scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.

You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.

This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels I am possessed of. ’Tis exactly valued, Not petty things admitted. Where’s Seleucus?

Enter Seleucus.

Here, madam.

This is my treasurer. Let him speak, my lord, Upon his peril, that I have reserved To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.

Madam, I had rather seal my lips Than to my peril speak that which is not.

What have I kept back?

Enough to purchase what you have made known.

Nay, blush not, Cleopatra. I approve Your wisdom in the deed.

See, Caesar! O, behold, How pomp is followed! Mine will now be yours And should we shift estates, yours would be mine. The ingratitude of this Seleucus does Even make me wild. O slave, of no more trust Than love that’s hired! What, goest thou back? Thou shalt Go back, I warrant thee! But I’ll catch thine eyes Though they had wings. Slave, soulless villain, dog! O rarely base!

Good queen, let us entreat you.

O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this, That thou vouchsafing here to visit me, Doing the honour of thy lordliness To one so meek, that mine own servant should Parcel the sum of my disgraces by Addition of his envy! Say, good Caesar, That I some lady trifles have reserved, Immoment toys, things of such dignity As we greet modern friends withal; and say Some nobler token I have kept apart For Livia and Octavia, to induce Their mediation, must I be unfolded With one that I have bred? The gods! It smites me Beneath the fall I have. [_To Seleucus_.] Prithee go hence, Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through th’ ashes of my chance. Wert thou a man, Thou wouldst have mercy on me.

Forbear, Seleucus.

[_Exit Seleucus._]

Be it known that we, the greatest, are misthought For things that others do; and when we fall, We answer others’ merits in our name, Are therefore to be pitied.

Cleopatra, Not what you have reserved nor what acknowledged Put we i’ th’ roll of conquest. Still be’t yours; Bestow it at your pleasure, and believe Caesar’s no merchant to make prize with you Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheered; Make not your thoughts your prisons. No, dear queen; For we intend so to dispose you as Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed and sleep. Our care and pity is so much upon you That we remain your friend; and so, adieu.

My master and my lord!

Not so. Adieu.

[_Flourish. Exeunt Caesar and his train._]

He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not Be noble to myself. But hark thee, Charmian!

[_Whispers to Charmian._]

Finish, good lady. The bright day is done, And we are for the dark.

Hie thee again. I have spoke already, and it is provided. Go put it to the haste.

Madam, I will.

Enter Dolabella.

Where’s the Queen?

Behold, sir.

Madam, as thereto sworn by your command, Which my love makes religion to obey, I tell you this: Caesar through Syria Intends his journey, and within three days You with your children will he send before. Make your best use of this. I have performed Your pleasure and my promise.

Dolabella, I shall remain your debtor.

I your servant. Adieu, good queen. I must attend on Caesar.

Farewell, and thanks.

[_Exit Dolabella._]

Now, Iras, what think’st thou? Thou an Egyptian puppet shall be shown In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers shall Uplift us to the view. In their thick breaths, Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded, And forced to drink their vapour.

The gods forbid!

Nay, ’tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors Will catch at us like strumpets, and scald rhymers Ballad us out o’ tune. The quick comedians Extemporally will stage us and present Our Alexandrian revels; Antony Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I’ th’ posture of a whore.

O the good gods!

Nay, that’s certain.

I’ll never see’t, for I am sure mine nails Are stronger than mine eyes.

Why, that’s the way To fool their preparation and to conquer Their most absurd intents.

Enter Charmian.

Now, Charmian! Show me, my women, like a queen. Go fetch My best attires. I am again for Cydnus To meet Mark Antony. Sirrah, Iras, go. Now, noble Charmian, we’ll dispatch indeed, And when thou hast done this chare, I’ll give thee leave To play till doomsday. Bring our crown and all.

[_Exit Iras. A noise within._]

Wherefore’s this noise?

Enter a Guardsman.

Here is a rural fellow That will not be denied your highness’ presence. He brings you figs.

Let him come in.

[_Exit Guardsman._]

What poor an instrument May do a noble deed! He brings me liberty. My resolution’s placed, and I have nothing Of woman in me. Now from head to foot I am marble-constant. Now the fleeting moon No planet is of mine.

Enter Guardsman and Clown with a basket.

This is the man.

Avoid, and leave him.

[_Exit Guardsman._]

Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there That kills and pains not?

Truly, I have him, but I would not be the party that should desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal. Those that do die of it do seldom or never recover.

Remember’st thou any that have died on’t?

Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer than yesterday—a very honest woman, but something given to lie; as a woman should not do but in the way of honesty—how she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt. Truly she makes a very good report o’ th’ worm; but he that will believe all that they say shall never be saved by half that they do. But this is most falliable, the worm’s an odd worm.

Get thee hence. Farewell.

I wish you all joy of the worm.

[_Sets down the basket._]

You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind.

Ay, ay, farewell.

Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm.

Take thou no care; it shall be heeded.

Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding.

Will it eat me?

You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself will not eat a woman. I know that a woman is a dish for the gods if the devil dress her not. But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women, for in every ten that they make, the devils mar five.

Well, get thee gone. Farewell.

Yes, forsooth. I wish you joy o’ th’ worm.

Enter Iras with a robe, crown, &c.

Give me my robe. Put on my crown. I have Immortal longings in me. Now no more The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip. Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear Antony call. I see him rouse himself To praise my noble act. I hear him mock The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come! Now to that name my courage prove my title! I am fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life.—So, have you done? Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Farewell, kind Charmian. Iras, long farewell.

[_Kisses them. Iras falls and dies._]

Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall? If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts and is desired. Dost thou lie still? If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world It is not worth leave-taking.

Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain, that I may say The gods themselves do weep!

This proves me base. If she first meet the curled Antony, He’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss Which is my heaven to have.—Come, thou mortal wretch,

[_To an asp, which she applies to her breast._]

With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate Of life at once untie. Poor venomous fool, Be angry and dispatch. O couldst thou speak, That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass Unpolicied!

O eastern star!

Peace, peace! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast That sucks the nurse asleep?

O, break! O, break!

As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle— O Antony!—Nay, I will take thee too.

[_Applying another asp to her arm._]

What should I stay—

In this vile world? So, fare thee well. Now boast thee, Death, in thy possession lies A lass unparalleled. Downy windows, close, And golden Phœbus never be beheld Of eyes again so royal! Your crown’s awry; I’ll mend it and then play.

Enter the Guard rustling in.

FIRST GUARD.

Where’s the queen?

Speak softly. Wake her not.

FIRST GUARD.

Caesar hath sent—

Too slow a messenger.

[_Applies an asp._]

O, come apace, dispatch! I partly feel thee.

FIRST GUARD.

Approach, ho! All’s not well. Caesar’s beguiled.

SECOND GUARD.

There’s Dolabella sent from Caesar. Call him.

FIRST GUARD.

What work is here, Charmian? Is this well done?

It is well done, and fitting for a princess Descended of so many royal kings. Ah, soldier!

[_Charmian dies._]

Enter Dolabella.

How goes it here?

SECOND GUARD.

All dead.

Caesar, thy thoughts Touch their effects in this. Thyself art coming To see performed the dreaded act which thou So sought’st to hinder.

Enter Caesar and all his train, marching.

A way there, a way for Caesar!

O sir, you are too sure an augurer: That you did fear is done.

Bravest at the last, She levelled at our purposes and, being royal, Took her own way. The manner of their deaths? I do not see them bleed.

Who was last with them?

FIRST GUARD.

A simple countryman that brought her figs. This was his basket.

Poisoned then.

FIRST GUARD.

O Caesar, This Charmian lived but now; she stood and spake. I found her trimming up the diadem On her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood, And on the sudden dropped.

O noble weakness! If they had swallowed poison ’twould appear By external swelling; but she looks like sleep, As she would catch another Antony In her strong toil of grace.

Here on her breast There is a vent of blood, and something blown. The like is on her arm.

FIRST GUARD.

This is an aspic’s trail, and these fig leaves Have slime upon them, such as th’ aspic leaves Upon the caves of Nile.

Most probable That so she died, for her physician tells me She hath pursued conclusions infinite Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed, And bear her women from the monument. She shall be buried by her Antony. No grave upon the earth shall clip in it A pair so famous. High events as these Strike those that make them; and their story is No less in pity than his glory which Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall In solemn show attend this funeral, And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see High order in this great solemnity.

[_Exeunt omnes._]

Contents — 32 sections

1. ACT I
2. ACT IV
3. ACT V
4. ACT I
5. ACT I, SCENE II. Corioles. The Senate House
6. ACT I, SCENE III. Rome. An apartment in Martius’ house
7. ACT I, SCENE IV. Before Corioles
8. ACT I, SCENE V. Within Corioles. A street
9. ACT I, SCENE VI. Near the camp of Cominius
10. ACT I, SCENE VII. The gates of Corioles
11. ACT I, SCENE VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps
12. ACT I, SCENE IX. The Roman camp
13. ACT I, SCENE X. The camp of the Volsces
14. ACT II
15. ACT II, SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol
16. ACT II, SCENE III. Rome. The Forum
17. ACT III
18. ACT III, SCENE II. Rome. A room in Coriolanus’s house
19. ACT III, SCENE III. Rome. The Forum
20. ACT IV
21. ACT IV, SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate
22. ACT IV, SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium
23. ACT IV, SCENE IV. Antium. Before Aufidius’s house
24. ACT IV, SCENE V. Antium. A hall in Aufidius’s house
25. ACT IV, SCENE VI. Rome. A public place
26. ACT IV, SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome
27. ACT V
28. ACT V, SCENE II. An Advanced post of the Volscian camp before Rome.
29. ACT V, SCENE III. The tent of Coriolanus
30. ACT V, SCENE IV. Rome. A public place
31. ACT V, SCENE V. Rome. A street near the gate
32. ACT V, SCENE VI. Antium. A public place

ACT I

Scene I. Rome. A street Scene II. Corioles. The Senate House Scene III. Rome. An apartment in Martius’ house Scene IV. Before Corioles Scene V. Within Corioles. A street Scene VI. Near the camp of Cominius Scene VII. The gates of Corioles Scene VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps Scene IX. The Roman camp Scene X. The camp of the Volsces

ACT IV

Scene I. Rome. Before a gate of the city Scene II. Rome. A street near the gate Scene III. A highway between Rome and Antium Scene IV. Antium. Before Aufidius’s house Scene V. Antium. A hall in Aufidius’s house Scene VI. Rome. A public place Scene VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome

ACT V

Scene I. Rome. A public place Scene II. An Advanced post of the Volscian camp before Rome. Scene III. The tent of Coriolanus Scene IV. Rome. A public place Scene V. Rome. A street near the gate Scene VI. Antium. A public place

Dramatis Personæ

CAIUS MARTIUS CORIOLANUS, a noble Roman VOLUMNIA, his mother VIRGILIA, his wife YOUNG MARTIUS, their son VALERIA, friend to Volumnia and Virgilia A GENTLEWOMAN, Volumnia’s attendant

MENENIUS AGRIPPA, Friend to Coriolanus COMINIUS, General against the Volscians TITUS LARTIUS, General against the Volscians SICINIUS VELUTUS, Tribune of the People JUNIUS BRUTUS, Tribune of the People A ROMAN HERALD

TULLUS AUFIDIUS, General of the Volscians LIEUTENANT, to Aufidius Conspirators with Aufidius A CITIZEN of Antium TWO VOLSCIAN GUARDS

Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, Aediles, Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants to Aufidius, and other Attendants

SCENE: Partly in Rome, and partly in the territories of the Volscians and Antiates.

ACT I

SCENE I. Rome. A street

Enter a company of mutinous Citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Before we proceed any further, hear me speak.

Speak, speak!

FIRST CITIZEN.

You are all resolved rather to die than to famish?

Resolved, resolved!

FIRST CITIZEN.

First, you know Caius Martius is chief enemy to the people.

We know’t, we know’t!

FIRST CITIZEN.

Let us kill him, and we’ll have corn at our own price. Is’t a verdict?

No more talking on’t; let it be done. Away, away!

SECOND CITIZEN.

One word, good citizens.

FIRST CITIZEN.

We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good. What authority surfeits on would relieve us. If they would yield us but the superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely. But they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for revenge.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Would you proceed especially against Caius Martius?

FIRST CITIZEN.

Against him first. He’s a very dog to the commonalty.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Consider you what services he has done for his country?

FIRST CITIZEN.

Very well, and could be content to give him good report for’t, but that he pays himself with being proud.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Nay, but speak not maliciously.

FIRST CITIZEN.

I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did it to that end. Though soft-conscienced men can be content to say it was for his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he is, even to the altitude of his virtue.

SECOND CITIZEN.

What he cannot help in his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous.

FIRST CITIZEN.

If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations. He hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [_Shouts within_.] What shouts are these? The other side o’ th’ city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th’ Capitol!

Come, come!

Enter Menenius Agrippa.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Soft, who comes here?

SECOND CITIZEN.

Worthy Menenius Agrippa, one that hath always loved the people.

FIRST CITIZEN.

He’s one honest enough. Would all the rest were so!

What work’s, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Our business is not unknown to th’ Senate. They have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to do, which now we’ll show ’em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too.

Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves?

FIRST CITIZEN.

We cannot, sir; we are undone already.

I tell you, friends, most charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them Against the Roman state, whose course will on The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity Thither where more attends you, and you slander The helms o’ th’ state, who care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Care for us? True, indeed! They ne’er cared for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their storehouses crammed with grain; make edicts for usury to support usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will; and there’s all the love they bear us.

Either you must confess yourselves wondrous malicious Or be accused of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it, But since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale’t a little more.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Well, I’ll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our disgrace with a tale. But, an’t please you, deliver.

There was a time when all the body’s members Rebelled against the belly, thus accused it: That only like a gulf it did remain I’ th’ midst o’ th’ body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the rest, where th’ other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. The belly answered—

FIRST CITIZEN.

Well, sir, what answer made the belly?

Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile, Which ne’er came from the lungs, but even thus— For, look you, I may make the belly smile As well as speak—it tauntingly replied To th’ discontented members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you malign our senators for that They are not such as you.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Your belly’s answer—what? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that they—

What then? ’Fore me, this fellow speaks. What then? What then?

FIRST CITIZEN.

Should by the cormorant belly be restrained, Who is the sink o’ th’ body—

Well, what then?

FIRST CITIZEN.

The former agents, if they did complain, What could the belly answer?

I will tell you, If you’ll bestow a small—of what you have little— Patience awhile, you’st hear the belly’s answer.

FIRST CITIZEN.

You are long about it.

Note me this, good friend; Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered: “True is it, my incorporate friends,” quoth he, “That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood Even to the court, the heart, to th’ seat o’ th’ brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once, You, my good friends”—this says the belly, mark me—

FIRST CITIZEN.

Ay, sir, well, well.

“Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran.” What say you to’t?

FIRST CITIZEN.

It was an answer. How apply you this?

The senators of Rome are this good belly, And you the mutinous members. For examine Their counsels and their cares, digest things rightly Touching the weal o’ th’ common, you shall find No public benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you And no way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly?

FIRST CITIZEN.

I the great toe? Why the great toe?

For that, being one o’ th’ lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead’st first to win some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale.

Enter Caius Martius.

Hail, noble Martius.

Thanks.—What’s the matter, you dissentious rogues, That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs?

FIRST CITIZEN.

We have ever your good word.

He that will give good words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs, That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you; The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where foxes, geese. You are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate; and your affections are A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was your garland. What’s the matter, That in these several places of the city You cry against the noble senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else Would feed on one another?—What’s their seeking?

For corn at their own rates, whereof they say The city is well stored.

Hang ’em! They say? They’ll sit by th’ fire and presume to know What’s done i’ th’ Capitol, who’s like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions and give out Conjectural marriages, making parties strong And feebling such as stand not in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there’s grain enough? Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I’d make a quarry With thousands of these quartered slaves as high As I could pick my lance.

Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But I beseech you, What says the other troop?

They are dissolved. Hang ’em! They said they were an-hungry, sighed forth proverbs That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them—a strange one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale—they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o’ th’ moon, Shouting their emulation.

What is granted them?

Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One’s Junius Brutus, Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. ’Sdeath! The rabble should have first unroofed the city Ere so prevailed with me. It will in time Win upon power and throw forth greater themes For insurrection’s arguing.

This is strange.

Go get you home, you fragments.

Enter a Messenger hastily.

Where’s Caius Martius?

Here. What’s the matter?

The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms.

I am glad on’t. Then we shall ha’ means to vent Our musty superfluity.

Enter Sicinius Velutus, Junius Brutus, two Tribunes; Cominius, Titus Lartius with other Senators.

See, our best elders.

FIRST SENATOR.

Martius, ’tis true that you have lately told us: The Volsces are in arms.

They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to’t. I sin in envying his nobility, And, were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he.

You have fought together.

Were half to half the world by th’ ears and he Upon my party, I’d revolt, to make Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt.

FIRST SENATOR.

Then, worthy Martius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars.

It is your former promise.

Sir, it is, And I am constant.—Titus Lartius, thou Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus’ face. What, art thou stiff? Stand’st out?

TITUS LARTIUS.

No, Caius Martius, I’ll lean upon one crutch and fight with th’ other Ere stay behind this business.

O, true bred!

FIRST SENATOR.

Your company to th’ Capitol, where I know Our greatest friends attend us.

TITUS LARTIUS.

Lead you on. Follow Cominius. We must follow you; Right worthy your priority.

Noble Martius.

FIRST SENATOR.

[_To the Citizens_.] Hence to your homes, begone.

Nay, let them follow. The Volsces have much corn; take these rats thither To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth. Pray follow.

[_Exeunt. Sicinius and Brutus remain_.]

Was ever man so proud as is this Martius?

He has no equal.

When we were chosen tribunes for the people—

Marked you his lip and eyes?

Nay, but his taunts.

Being moved, he will not spare to gird the gods.

Bemock the modest moon.

The present wars devour him! He is grown Too proud to be so valiant.

Such a nature, Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence can brook to be commanded Under Cominius.

Fame, at the which he aims, In whom already he’s well graced, cannot Better be held nor more attained than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the General’s fault, though he perform To th’ utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then cry out of Martius “O, if he Had borne the business!”

Besides, if things go well, Opinion that so sticks on Martius shall Of his demerits rob Cominius.

Come. Half all Cominius’ honours are to Martius, Though Martius earned them not, and all his faults To Martius shall be honours, though indeed In aught he merit not.

Let’s hence and hear How the dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than in singularity, he goes Upon this present action.

Let’s along.

ACT I, SCENE II. Corioles. The Senate House

Enter Tullus Aufidius with Senators of Corioles.

FIRST SENATOR.

So, your opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Rome are entered in our counsels And know how we proceed.

Is it not yours? What ever have been thought on in this state That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome Had circumvention? ’Tis not four days gone Since I heard thence. These are the words—I think I have the letter here. Yes, here it is. [_Reads_.] _They have pressed a power, but it is not known Whether for east or west. The dearth is great. The people mutinous; and, it is rumoured, Cominius, Martius your old enemy, Who is of Rome worse hated than of you,— And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, These three lead on this preparation Whither ’tis bent. Most likely ’tis for you. Consider of it._

FIRST SENATOR.

Our army’s in the field. We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready To answer us.

Nor did you think it folly To keep your great pretences veiled till when They needs must show themselves, which, in the hatching, It seemed, appeared to Rome. By the discovery We shall be shortened in our aim, which was To take in many towns ere almost Rome Should know we were afoot.

SECOND SENATOR.

Noble Aufidius, Take your commission; hie you to your bands. Let us alone to guard Corioles. If they set down before’s, for the remove Bring up your army. But I think you’ll find They’ve not prepared for us.

O, doubt not that; I speak from certainties. Nay, more, Some parcels of their power are forth already, And only hitherward. I leave your Honours. If we and Caius Martius chance to meet, ’Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike Till one can do no more.

The gods assist you!

And keep your Honours safe!

FIRST SENATOR.

SECOND SENATOR.

ACT I, SCENE III. Rome. An apartment in Martius’ house

Enter Volumnia and Virgilia, mother and wife to Martius. They set them down on two low stools and sew.

I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied and the only son of my womb, when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way, when for a day of kings’ entreaties a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding, I, considering how honour would become such a person—that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th’ wall, if renown made it not stir—was pleased to let him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.

But had he died in the business, madam, how then?

Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike and none less dear than thine and my good Martius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

Enter a Gentlewoman.

Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you.

Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.

Indeed you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum, See him pluck Aufidius down by th’ hair; As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him. Methinks I see him stamp thus and call thus: “Come on, you cowards! You were got in fear, Though you were born in Rome.” His bloody brow With his mailed hand then wiping, forth he goes Like to a harvestman that’s tasked to mow Or all or lose his hire.

His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood!

Away, you fool! It more becomes a man Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, looked not lovelier Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood At Grecian sword, contemning.—Tell Valeria We are fit to bid her welcome.

[_Exit Gentlewoman._]

Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!

He’ll beat Aufidius’ head below his knee And tread upon his neck.

Enter Valeria with an Usher and a Gentlewoman.

My ladies both, good day to you.

Sweet madam.

I am glad to see your Ladyship.

How do you both? You are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son?

I thank your Ladyship; well, good madam.

He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look upon his schoolmaster.

O’ my word, the father’s son! I’ll swear ’tis a very pretty boy. O’ my troth, I looked upon him o’ Wednesday half an hour together. H’as such a confirmed countenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly, and when he caught it, he let it go again, and after it again, and over and over he comes, and up again, catched it again. Or whether his fall enraged him or how ’twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant how he mammocked it!

One on’s father’s moods.

Indeed, la, ’tis a noble child.

A crack, madam.

Come, lay aside your stitchery. I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon.

No, good madam, I will not out of doors.

Not out of doors?

She shall, she shall.

Indeed, no, by your patience. I’ll not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars.

Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably. Come, you must go visit the good lady that lies in.

I will wish her speedy strength and visit her with my prayers, but I cannot go thither.

Why, I pray you?

’Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love.

You would be another Penelope. Yet they say all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come, I would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us.

No, good madam, pardon me; indeed, I will not forth.

In truth, la, go with me, and I’ll tell you excellent news of your husband.

O, good madam, there can be none yet.

Verily, I do not jest with you. There came news from him last night.

Indeed, madam!

In earnest, it’s true. I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the Volsces have an army forth, against whom Cominius the General is gone with one part of our Roman power. Your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioles. They nothing doubt prevailing, and to make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour, and so, I pray, go with us.

Give me excuse, good madam. I will obey you in everything hereafter.

Let her alone, lady. As she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.

In troth, I think she would.—Fare you well, then.—Come, good sweet lady.—Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o’ door, and go along with us.

No, at a word, madam. Indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth.

Well then, farewell.

ACT I, SCENE IV. Before Corioles

Enter Martius, Titus Lartius, with drum and colours, with Captains and Soldiers, as before the city of Corioles. To them a Messenger.

Yonder comes news. A wager they have met.

My horse to yours, no.

’Tis done.

[_To Messenger_.] Say, has our general met the enemy?

They lie in view but have not spoke as yet.

So the good horse is mine.

I’ll buy him of you.

No, I’ll nor sell nor give him. Lend you him I will For half a hundred years.—Summon the town.

How far off lie these armies?

Within this mile and half.

Then shall we hear their ’larum, and they ours. Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, That we with smoking swords may march from hence To help our fielded friends!—Come, blow thy blast.

[_They sound a parley._]

Enter two Senators with others on the walls of Corioles.

Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls?

FIRST SENATOR.

No, nor a man that fears you less than he: That’s lesser than a little. [_Drum afar off_.] Hark, our drums Are bringing forth our youth. We’ll break our walls Rather than they shall pound us up. Our gates, Which yet seem shut, we have but pinned with rushes. They’ll open of themselves. [_Alarum far off_.] Hark you, far off! There is Aufidius. List what work he makes Amongst your cloven army.

O, they are at it!

Their noise be our instruction.—Ladders, ho!

Enter the Army of the Volsces as through the city gates.

They fear us not but issue forth their city.— Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight With hearts more proof than shields.—Advance, brave Titus. They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Which makes me sweat with wrath.—Come on, my fellows! He that retires, I’ll take him for a Volsce, And he shall feel mine edge.

[_Alarums. The Romans are beat back to their trenches. They exit, with the Volsces following_.]

Enter Martius cursing, with Roman soldiers.

All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! You herd of—Boils and plagues Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhorred Farther than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese, That bear the shapes of men, how have you run From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! All hurt behind. Backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear! Mend, and charge home, Or, by the fires of heaven, I’ll leave the foe And make my wars on you. Look to’t. Come on! If you’ll stand fast we’ll beat them to their wives, As they us to our trenches. Follow’s!

[_Another alarum. The Volsces re-enter and are driven back to the gates of Corioles, which open to admit them._]

So, now the gates are ope. Now prove good seconds! ’Tis for the followers fortune widens them, Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like.

[_Martius follows the fleeing Volsces through the gates, and is shut in._]

FIRST SOLDIER.

Foolhardiness, not I.

SECOND SOLDIER.

Nor I.

FIRST SOLDIER.

See, they have shut him in.

[_Alarum continues._]

To th’ pot, I warrant him.

Enter Titus Lartius.

What is become of Martius?

Slain, sir, doubtless.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Following the fliers at the very heels, With them he enters, who upon the sudden Clapped to their gates. He is himself alone, To answer all the city.

O noble fellow, Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, And when it bows, stand’st up! Thou art left, Martius. A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier Even to Cato’s wish, not fierce and terrible Only in strokes, but with thy grim looks and The thunderlike percussion of thy sounds Thou mad’st thine enemies shake, as if the world Were feverous and did tremble.

Enter Martius, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Look, sir.

O, ’tis Martius! Let’s fetch him off or make remain alike.

[_They fight, and all enter the city._]

ACT I, SCENE V. Within Corioles. A street

Enter certain Romans, with spoils.

FIRST ROMAN.

This will I carry to Rome.

SECOND ROMAN.

And I this.

THIRD ROMAN.

A murrain on’t! I took this for silver.

Enter Martius and Titus Lartius with a Trumpet.

See here these movers that do prize their hours At a cracked drachma. Cushions, leaden spoons, Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves, Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them!

[_Exit the Romans with spoils._]

[_Alarum continues still afar off._]

And hark, what noise the General makes! To him! There is the man of my soul’s hate, Aufidius, Piercing our Romans. Then, valiant Titus, take Convenient numbers to make good the city, Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste To help Cominius.

Worthy sir, thou bleed’st. Thy exercise hath been too violent For a second course of fight.

Sir, praise me not. My work hath yet not warmed me. Fare you well. The blood I drop is rather physical Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus I will appear and fight.

Now the fair goddess Fortune Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentleman, Prosperity be thy page!

Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest! So farewell.

Thou worthiest Martius!

[_Exit Martius._]

Go sound thy trumpet in the marketplace. Call thither all the officers o’ th’ town, Where they shall know our mind. Away!

ACT I, SCENE VI. Near the camp of Cominius

Enter Cominius as it were in retire, with Soldiers.

Breathe you, my friends. Well fought! We are come off Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs, We shall be charged again. Whiles we have struck, By interims and conveying gusts we have heard The charges of our friends. The Roman gods Lead their successes as we wish our own, That both our powers, with smiling fronts encount’ring, May give you thankful sacrifice!

Enter a Messenger.

Thy news?

The citizens of Corioles have issued, And given to Lartius and to Martius battle. I saw our party to their trenches driven, And then I came away.

Though thou speakest truth, Methinks thou speak’st not well. How long is’t since?

Above an hour, my lord.

’Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums. How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour And bring thy news so late?

Spies of the Volsces Held me in chase, that I was forced to wheel Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, Half an hour since brought my report.

[_Exit Messenger._]

Enter Martius, bloody.

Who’s yonder, That does appear as he were flayed? O gods, He has the stamp of Martius, and I have Before-time seen him thus.

Come I too late?

The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor More than I know the sound of Martius’ tongue From every meaner man.

Come I too late?

Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own.

O, let me clip you In arms as sound as when I wooed, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done And tapers burned to bedward!

Flower of warriors, how is’t with Titus Lartius?

As with a man busied about decrees, Condemning some to death and some to exile; Ransoming him or pitying, threat’ning the other; Holding Corioles in the name of Rome Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let him slip at will.

Where is that slave Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? Where’s he? Call him hither.

Let him alone. He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen, The common file—a plague! Tribunes for them!— The mouse ne’er shunned the cat as they did budge From rascals worse than they.

But how prevailed you?

Will the time serve to tell? I do not think. Where is the enemy? Are you lords o’ th’ field? If not, why cease you till you are so?

Martius, we have at disadvantage fought, And did retire to win our purpose.

How lies their battle? Know you on which side They have placed their men of trust?

As I guess, Martius, Their bands i’ th’ vaward are the Antiates, Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope.

I do beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, By th’ blood we have shed together, by th’ vows we have made To endure friends, that you directly set me Against Aufidius and his Antiates, And that you not delay the present, but, Filling the air with swords advanced and darts, We prove this very hour.

Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath And balms applied to you, yet dare I never Deny your asking. Take your choice of those That best can aid your action.

Those are they That most are willing. If any such be here— As it were sin to doubt—that love this painting Wherein you see me smeared; if any fear Lesser his person than an ill report; If any think brave death outweighs bad life, And that his country’s dearer than himself; Let him alone, or so many so minded, Wave thus to express his disposition And follow Martius.

[_He waves his sword._]

[_They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in their arms, and cast up their caps._]

O, me alone! Make you a sword of me? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces? None of you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. A certain number, Though thanks to all, must I select from all. The rest shall bear the business in some other fight, As cause will be obeyed. Please you to march, And I shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclined.

March on, my fellows. Make good this ostentation, and you shall Divide in all with us.

ACT I, SCENE VII. The gates of Corioles

Titus Lartius, having set a guard upon Corioles, going with drum and trumpet toward Cominius and Caius Martius, enters with a Lieutenant, other Soldiers, and a Scout.

So, let the ports be guarded. Keep your duties As I have set them down. If I do send, dispatch Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve For a short holding. If we lose the field, We cannot keep the town.

Fear not our care, sir.

Hence, and shut your gates upon’s. Our guider, come. To th’ Roman camp conduct us.

ACT I, SCENE VIII. A field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps

Alarum, as in battle. Enter Martius and Aufidius at several doors.

I’ll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee Worse than a promise-breaker.

We hate alike. Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot.

Let the first budger die the other’s slave, And the gods doom him after!

If I fly, Martius, Hollo me like a hare.

Within these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioles’ walls, And made what work I pleased. ’Tis not my blood Wherein thou seest me masked. For thy revenge Wrench up thy power to th’ highest.

Wert thou the Hector That was the whip of your bragged progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here.

[_Here they fight, and certain Volsces come to the aid of Aufidius._]

Officious and not valiant, you have shamed me In your condemned seconds.

[_Martius fights till they be driven in breathless. Aufidius and Martius exit, separately._]

ACT I, SCENE IX. The Roman camp

Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish. Enter, at one door, Cominius with the Romans; at another door, Martius, with his arm in a scarf.

If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work, Thou’t not believe thy deeds. But I’ll report it Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles; Where great patricians shall attend and shrug, I’ th’ end admire; where ladies shall be frighted And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts “We thank the gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.” Yet cam’st thou to a morsel of this feast, Having fully dined before.

Enter Titus Lartius with his power, from the pursuit.

O general, Here is the steed, we the caparison. Hadst thou beheld—

Pray now, no more. My mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood, When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done—that’s what I can; Induced as you have been—that’s for my country. He that has but effected his good will Hath overta’en mine act.

You shall not be The grave of your deserving. Rome must know The value of her own. ’Twere a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, To hide your doings and to silence that Which, to the spire and top of praises vouched, Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you— In sign of what you are, not to reward What you have done—before our army hear me.

I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves remembered.

Should they not, Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitude And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses— Whereof we have ta’en good and good store—of all The treasure in this field achieved and city, We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth Before the common distribution At your only choice.

I thank you, general, But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it; And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing.

[_A long flourish. They all cry “Martius, Martius!” and cast up their caps and lances. Cominius and Lartius stand bare._]

May these same instruments which, you profane, Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall I’ th’ field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-faced soothing! When steel grows soft Soft as the parasite’s silk, let him be made An ovator for the wars! No more, I say. For that I have not washed my nose that bled, Or foiled some debile wretch—which, without note, Here’s many else have done—you shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical, As if I loved my little should be dieted In praises sauced with lies.

Too modest are you, More cruel to your good report than grateful To us that give you truly. By your patience, If ’gainst yourself you be incensed, we’ll put you, Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles, Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known, As to us to all the world, that Caius Martius Wears this war’s garland, in token of the which My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging. And from this time, For what he did before Corioles, call him, With all th’ applause and clamour of the host, Caius Martius Coriolanus! Bear Th’ addition nobly ever!

[_Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums._]

Caius Martius Coriolanus!

I will go wash; And when my face is fair, you shall perceive Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you. I mean to stride your steed and at all times To undercrest your good addition To th’ fairness of my power.

So, to our tent, Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success.—You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioles back. Send us to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate For their own good and ours.

I shall, my lord.

The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my lord general.

Take’t, ’tis yours. What is’t?

I sometime lay here in Corioles At a poor man’s house; he used me kindly. He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was within my view, And wrath o’erwhelmed my pity. I request you To give my poor host freedom.

O, well begged! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind.—Deliver him, Titus.

Martius, his name?

By Jupiter, forgot! I am weary; yea, my memory is tired. Have we no wine here?

Go we to our tent. The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time It should be looked to. Come.

[_A flourish of cornets. Exeunt._]

ACT I, SCENE X. The camp of the Volsces

A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, bloody, with two or three soldiers.

The town is ta’en.

’Twill be delivered back on good condition.

Condition? I would I were a Roman, for I cannot, Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition? What good condition can a treaty find I’ th’ part that is at mercy? Five times, Martius, I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter As often as we eat. By th’ elements, If e’er again I meet him beard to beard, He’s mine or I am his. Mine emulation Hath not that honour in’t it had; for where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I’ll potch at him some way, Or wrath or craft may get him.

He’s the devil.

Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour’s poisoned With only suff’ring stain by him; for him Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten privilege and custom ’gainst My hate to Martius. Where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother’s guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in’s heart. Go you to th’ city; Learn how ’tis held and what they are that must Be hostages for Rome.

Will not you go?

I am attended at the cypress grove. I pray you— ’Tis south the city mills,—bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it I may spur on my journey.

I shall, sir.

ACT II

SCENE I. Rome. A public place

Enter Menenius with the two Tribunes of the people, Sicinius and Brutus.

The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.

Good or bad?

Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Martius.

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

Pray you, who does the wolf love?

The lamb.

Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Martius.

He’s a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear.

He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

BOTH TRIBUNES.

Well, sir.

In what enormity is Martius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?

He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with all.

Especially in pride.

And topping all others in boasting.

This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o’ th’ right-hand file, do you?

BOTH TRIBUNES.

Why, how are we censured?

Because you talk of pride now, will you not be angry?

BOTH TRIBUNES.

Well, well, sir, well?

Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures, at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Martius for being proud.

We do it not alone, sir.

I know you can do very little alone, for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single. Your abilities are too infantlike for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O, that you could!

BOTH TRIBUNES.

What then, sir?

Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, alias fools, as any in Rome.

Menenius, you are known well enough, too.

I am known to be a humorous patrician and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in’t; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are—I cannot call you Lycurguses—if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your Worships have delivered the matter well when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables. And though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough, too?

Come, sir, come; we know you well enough.

You know neither me, yourselves, nor anything. You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps and legs. You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a faucet-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones.

Come, come. You are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.

Our very priests must become mockers if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards, and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher’s cushion or to be entombed in an ass’s packsaddle. Yet you must be saying Martius is proud, who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion, though peradventure some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen. Good e’en to your Worships. More of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[_He begins to exit. Brutus and Sicinius stand aside._]

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia and Valeria

How now, my as fair as noble ladies—and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler—whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

Honourable Menenius, my boy Martius approaches. For the love of Juno, let’s go!

Ha? Martius coming home?

Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.

Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee! Hoo! Martius coming home?

VALERIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, ’tis true.

Look, here’s a letter from him. The state hath another, his wife another, and I think there’s one at home for you.

I will make my very house reel tonight. A letter for me?

Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I saw it.

A letter for me? It gives me an estate of seven years’ health, in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded.

O, no, no, no!

O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for’t.

So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings he victory in his pocket, the wounds become him.

On’s brows, Menenius. He comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

And ’twas time for him too, I’ll warrant him that. An he had stayed by him, I would not have been so ’fidiused for all the chests in Corioles and the gold that’s in them. Is the Senate possessed of this?

Good ladies, let’s go.—Yes, yes, yes. The Senate has letters from the General, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war. He hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly.

In troth, there’s wondrous things spoke of him.

Wondrous? Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

The gods grant them true.

True? Pow, waw!

True? I’ll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [_To the Tribunes_.] God save your good Worships! Martius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud.—Where is he wounded?

I’ th’ shoulder and i’ th’ left arm. There will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i’ th’ body.

One i’ th’ neck and two i’ th’ thigh—there’s nine that I know.

He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.

Now it’s twenty-seven. Every gash was an enemy’s grave.

[_A shout and flourish_.]

Hark, the trumpets!

These are the ushers of Martius: before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears. Death, that dark spirit, in’s nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die.

[_A sennet_.]

Enter Cominius the General and Titus Lartius, between them Coriolanus crowned with an oaken garland, with Captains and Soldiers and a Herald. Trumpets sound.

Know, Rome, that all alone Martius did fight Within Corioles’ gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Martius; these In honour follows “Coriolanus.” Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus.

[_Sound flourish._]

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

No more of this, it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more.

Look, sir, your mother.

O, You have, I know, petitioned all the gods For my prosperity.

Nay, my good soldier, up.

[_He stands._]

My gentle Martius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly named— What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee? But, O, thy wife—

My gracious silence, hail. Wouldst thou have laughed had I come coffined home, That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioles wear And mothers that lack sons.

Now the gods crown thee!

And live you yet? [_To Valeria_] O my sweet lady, pardon.

I know not where to turn. O, welcome home! And welcome, general.—And you’re welcome all.

A hundred thousand welcomes! I could weep, And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome. A curse begin at very root on’s heart That is not glad to see thee! You are three That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crab trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors! We call a nettle but a nettle, and The faults of fools but folly.

Ever right.

Menenius ever, ever.

Give way there, and go on!

[_To Volumnia and Virgilia_.] Your hand, and yours. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited, From whom I have received not only greetings, But with them change of honours.

I have lived To see inherited my very wishes And the buildings of my fancy. Only There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee.

Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way Than sway with them in theirs.

On, to the Capitol.

[_Flourish of cornets. Exeunt in state, as before._]

Brutus and Sicinius come forward.

All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him. The kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck, Clamb’ring the walls to eye him. Stalls, bulks, windows Are smothered up, leads filled, and ridges horsed With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station. Our veiled dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely-gauded cheeks to th’ wanton spoil Of Phoebus’ burning kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slyly crept into his human powers And gave him graceful posture.

On the sudden I warrant him consul.

Then our office may, During his power, go sleep.

He cannot temp’rately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won.

In that there’s comfort.

Doubt not the commoners, for whom we stand, But they, upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours—which That he will give them make as little question As he is proud to do’t.

I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i’ th’ marketplace nor on him put The napless vesture of humility, Nor showing, as the manner is, his wounds To th’ people, beg their stinking breaths.

’Tis right.

It was his word. O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of the nobles.

I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose and to put it In execution.

’Tis most like he will.

It shall be to him then, as our good wills, A sure destruction.

So it must fall out To him, or our authorities for an end. We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them; that to’s power he would Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders, and Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them In human action and capacity Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in their war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them.

This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people—which time shall not want If it be put upon’t, and that’s as easy As to set dogs on sheep—will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble, and their blaze Shall darken him for ever.

Enter a Messenger.

What’s the matter?

You are sent for to the Capitol. ’Tis thought That Martius shall be consul. I have seen The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarves and handkerchiefs, Upon him as he passed; the nobles bended As to Jove’s statue, and the Commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like.

Let’s to the Capitol; And carry with us ears and eyes for th’ time, But hearts for the event.

Have with you.

ACT II, SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol

Enter two Officers, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol.

FIRST OFFICER.

Come, come. They are almost here. How many stand for consulships?

SECOND OFFICER.

Three, they say; but ’tis thought of everyone Coriolanus will carry it.

FIRST OFFICER.

That’s a brave fellow, but he’s vengeance proud and loves not the common people.

SECOND OFFICER.

’Faith, there have been many great men that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them; and there be many that they have loved they know not wherefore; so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition and, out of his noble carelessness, lets them plainly see’t.

FIRST OFFICER.

If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved indifferently ’twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can render it him and leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes, to flatter them for their love.

SECOND OFFICER.

He hath deserved worthily of his country, and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple and courteous to the people, bonnetted, without any further deed to have them at all into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours in their eyes and his actions in their hearts that for their tongues to be silent and not confess so much were a kind of ingrateful injury. To report otherwise were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every ear that heard it.

FIRST OFFICER.

No more of him; he’s a worthy man. Make way. They are coming.

A sennet. Enter the Patricians and the Tribunes of the people, Lictors before them; Coriolanus, Menenius, Cominius the consul. The Patricians sit. Sicinius and Brutus take their places by themselves. Coriolanus stands.

Having determined of the Volsces and To send for Titus Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you, Most reverend and grave elders, to desire The present consul and last general In our well-found successes to report A little of that worthy work performed By Martius Caius Coriolanus, whom We met here both to thank and to remember With honours like himself.

[_Coriolanus sits._]

FIRST SENATOR.

Speak, good Cominius. Leave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state’s defective for requital, Than we to stretch it out. Masters o’ th’ people, We do request your kindest ears and, after, Your loving motion toward the common body To yield what passes here.

We are convented Upon a pleasing treaty and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our assembly.

Which the rather We shall be blest to do if he remember A kinder value of the people than He hath hereto prized them at.

That’s off, that’s off! I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear Cominius speak?

Most willingly. But yet my caution was more pertinent Than the rebuke you give it.

He loves your people, But tie him not to be their bedfellow.— Worthy Cominius, speak.

[_Coriolanus rises, and offers to go away._]

Nay, keep your place.

FIRST SENATOR.

Sit, Coriolanus. Never shame to hear What you have nobly done.

Your Honours, pardon. I had rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them.

Sir, I hope My words disbenched you not?

No, sir. Yet oft, When blows have made me stay, I fled from words. You soothed not, therefore hurt not; but your people, I love them as they weigh.

Pray now, sit down.

I had rather have one scratch my head i’ th’ sun When the alarum were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monstered.

Masters of the people, Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter— That’s thousand to one good one—when you now see He had rather venture all his limbs for honour Than one on’s ears to hear it?—Proceed, Cominius.

I shall lack voice. The deeds of Coriolanus Should not be uttered feebly. It is held That valour is the chiefest virtue and Most dignifies the haver; if it be, The man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpoised. At sixteen years, When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others. Our then dictator, Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight When with his Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him. He bestrid An o’erpressed Roman and i’ th’ Consul’s view Slew three opposers. Tarquin’s self he met And struck him on his knee. In that day’s feats, When he might act the woman in the scene, He proved best man i’ th’ field and for his meed Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-entered thus, he waxed like a sea, And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurched all swords of the garland. For this last, Before and in Corioles, let me say, I cannot speak him home. He stopped the flyers And by his rare example made the coward Turn terror into sport. As weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obeyed And fell below his stem. His sword, Death’s stamp, Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was timed with dying cries. Alone he entered The mortal gate o’ th’ city, which he painted With shunless destiny; aidless came off And with a sudden reinforcement struck Corioles like a planet. Now all’s his, When by and by the din of war gan pierce His ready sense; then straight his doubled spirit Requickened what in flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he, where he did Run reeking o’er the lives of men as if ’Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we called Both field and city ours, he never stood To ease his breast with panting.

Worthy man!

FIRST SENATOR.

He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we devise him.

Our spoils he kicked at; And looked upon things precious as they were The common muck of the world. He covets less Than misery itself would give, rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the time to end it.

He’s right noble. Let him be called for.

FIRST SENATOR.

Call Coriolanus.

He doth appear.

Enter Coriolanus.

The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleased To make thee consul.

I do owe them still My life and services.

It then remains That you do speak to the people.

I do beseech you Let me o’erleap that custom, for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them For my wounds’ sake to give their suffrage. Please you That I may pass this doing.

Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will they bate One jot of ceremony.

Put them not to’t. Pray you, go fit you to the custom, and Take to you, as your predecessors have, Your honour with your form.

It is a part That I shall blush in acting, and might well Be taken from the people.

Mark you that?

To brag unto them, “thus I did, and thus!” Show them th’ unaching scars which I should hide, As if I had received them for the hire Of their breath only!

Do not stand upon’t.— We recommend to you, tribunes of the people, Our purpose to them, and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour.

To Coriolanus come all joy and honour!

[_Flourish cornets. Exeunt all but Sicinius and Brutus._]

You see how he intends to use the people.

May they perceive’s intent! He will require them As if he did contemn what he requested Should be in them to give.

Come, we’ll inform them Of our proceedings here. On th’ marketplace I know they do attend us.

ACT II, SCENE III. Rome. The Forum

Enter seven or eight Citizens.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him.

SECOND CITIZEN.

We may, sir, if we will.

THIRD CITIZEN.

We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do; for, if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them. So, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude, of the which we being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members.

FIRST CITIZEN.

And to make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude.

THIRD CITIZEN.

We have been called so of many; not that our heads are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely coloured; and truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south, and their consent of one direct way should be at once to all the points o’ th’ compass.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit would fly?

THIRD CITIZEN.

Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man’s will; ’tis strongly wedged up in a blockhead. But if it were at liberty, ’twould, sure, southward.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Why that way?

THIRD CITIZEN.

To lose itself in a fog, where being three parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience’ sake, to help to get thee a wife.

SECOND CITIZEN.

You are never without your tricks. You may, you may.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Are you all resolved to give your voices? But that’s no matter; the greater part carries it. I say, if he would incline to the people, there was never a worthier man.

Enter Coriolanus in a gown of humility, with Menenius.

Here he comes, and in the gown of humility. Mark his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He’s to make his requests by particulars, wherein everyone of us has a single honour in giving him our own voices with our own tongues. Therefore follow me, and I’ll direct you how you shall go by him.

Content, content.

O sir, you are not right. Have you not known The worthiest men have done’t?

What must I say? “I pray, sir”—plague upon’t! I cannot bring My tongue to such a pace. “Look, sir, my wounds! I got them in my country’s service when Some certain of your brethren roared and ran From th’ noise of our own drums.”

O me, the gods! You must not speak of that. You must desire them To think upon you.

Think upon me! Hang ’em! I would they would forget me, like the virtues Which our divines lose by ’em.

You’ll mar all. I’ll leave you. Pray you speak to ’em, I pray you, In wholesome manner.

[_Exit Menenius._]

Bid them wash their faces And keep their teeth clean.

Enter three of the Citizens.

So, here comes a brace. You know the cause, sirs, of my standing here.

THIRD CITIZEN.

We do, sir. Tell us what hath brought you to’t.

Mine own desert.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Your own desert?

Ay, but not mine own desire.

THIRD CITIZEN.

How, not your own desire?

No, sir, ’twas never my desire yet to trouble the poor with begging.

THIRD CITIZEN.

You must think if we give you anything, we hope to gain by you.

Well then, I pray, your price o’ th’ consulship?

FIRST CITIZEN.

The price is to ask it kindly.

Kindly, sir, I pray, let me ha’t. I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in private.—Your good voice, sir. What say you?

SECOND CITIZEN.

You shall ha’ it, worthy sir.

A match, sir. There’s in all two worthy voices begged. I have your alms. Adieu.

THIRD CITIZEN.

But this is something odd.

SECOND CITIZEN.

An ’twere to give again—but ’tis no matter.

[_Exeunt two citizens._]

Enter two other Citizens.

Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved nobly.

Your enigma?

FOURTH CITIZEN.

You have been a scourge to her enemies; you have been a rod to her friends. You have not indeed loved the common people.

You should account me the more virtuous that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; ’tis a condition they account gentle. And since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the insinuating nod and be off to them most counterfeitly. That is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular man and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you, I may be consul.

FIFTH CITIZEN.

We hope to find you our friend, and therefore give you our voices heartily.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

You have received many wounds for your country.

I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I will make much of your voices and so trouble you no farther.

BOTH CITIZENS.

The gods give you joy, sir, heartily.

[_Exeunt citizens._]

Most sweet voices! Better it is to die, better to starve, Than crave the hire which first we do deserve. Why in this wolvish toge should I stand here To beg of Hob and Dick that does appear Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to’t. What custom wills, in all things should we do’t? The dust on antique time would lie unswept And mountainous error be too highly heaped For truth to o’erpeer. Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one that would do thus. I am half through; The one part suffered, the other will I do.

Enter three Citizens more.

Here come more voices. Your voices! For your voices I have fought; Watched for your voices; for your voices bear Of wounds two dozen odd. Battles thrice six I have seen and heard of; for your voices have Done many things, some less, some more. Your voices! Indeed, I would be consul.

SIXTH CITIZEN.

He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest man’s voice.

SEVENTH CITIZEN.

Therefore let him be consul. The gods give him joy, and make him good friend to the people!

ALL THREE CITIZENS.

Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul.

[_Exeunt citizens._]

Worthy voices!

Enter Menenius with Brutus and Sicinius.

You have stood your limitation, and the Tribunes Endue you with the people’s voice. Remains That in th’ official marks invested, you Anon do meet the Senate.

Is this done?

The custom of request you have discharged. The people do admit you, and are summoned To meet anon upon your approbation.

Where? At the Senate House?

There, Coriolanus.

May I change these garments?

You may, sir.

That I’ll straight do and, knowing myself again, Repair to th’ Senate House.

I’ll keep you company.—Will you along?

We stay here for the people.

Fare you well.

[_Exeunt Coriolanus and Menenius._]

He has it now; and by his looks, methinks, ’Tis warm at his heart.

With a proud heart he wore His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people?

Enter the Pebleians.

How now, my masters, have you chose this man?

FIRST CITIZEN.

He has our voices, sir.

We pray the gods he may deserve your loves.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy notice, He mocked us when he begged our voices.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Certainly, he flouted us downright.

FIRST CITIZEN.

No, ’tis his kind of speech. He did not mock us.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says He used us scornfully. He should have showed us His marks of merit, wounds received for’s country.

Why, so he did, I am sure.

No, no. No man saw ’em.

THIRD CITIZEN.

He said he had wounds, which he could show in private, And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, “I would be consul,” says he; “aged custom, But by your voices, will not so permit me; Your voices therefore.” When we granted that, Here was “I thank you for your voices. Thank you. Your most sweet voices! Now you have left your voices, I have no further with you.” Was not this mockery?

Why either were you ignorant to see’t Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness To yield your voices?

Could you not have told him As you were lessoned? When he had no power, But was a petty servant to the state, He was your enemy, ever spake against Your liberties and the charters that you bear I’ th’ body of the weal; and, now arriving A place of potency and sway o’ th’ state, If he should still malignantly remain Fast foe to th’ plebeii, your voices might Be curses to yourselves. You should have said That as his worthy deeds did claim no less Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature Would think upon you for your voices, and Translate his malice towards you into love, Standing your friendly lord.

Thus to have said, As you were fore-advised, had touched his spirit And tried his inclination; from him plucked Either his gracious promise, which you might, As cause had called you up, have held him to; Or else it would have galled his surly nature, Which easily endures not article Tying him to aught. So putting him to rage, You should have ta’en th’ advantage of his choler And passed him unelected.

Did you perceive He did solicit you in free contempt When he did need your loves, and do you think That his contempt shall not be bruising to you When he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies No heart among you? Or had you tongues to cry Against the rectorship of judgment?

Have you ere now denied the asker, and now Again, of him that did not ask but mock, Bestow your sued-for tongues?

THIRD CITIZEN.

He’s not confirmed. We may deny him yet.

SECOND CITIZEN.

And will deny him. I’ll have five hundred voices of that sound.

FIRST CITIZEN.

I twice five hundred, and their friends to piece ’em.

Get you hence instantly, and tell those friends They have chose a consul that will from them take Their liberties, make them of no more voice Than dogs that are as often beat for barking As therefore kept to do so.

Let them assemble And, on a safer judgment, all revoke Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride And his old hate unto you. Besides, forget not With what contempt he wore the humble weed, How in his suit he scorned you; but your loves, Thinking upon his services, took from you Th’ apprehension of his present portance, Which most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion After the inveterate hate he bears you.

Lay A fault on us, your tribunes, that we laboured, No impediment between, but that you must Cast your election on him.

Say you chose him More after our commandment than as guided By your own true affections, and that your minds, Preoccupied with what you rather must do Than what you should, made you against the grain To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us.

Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you, How youngly he began to serve his country, How long continued, and what stock he springs of, The noble house o’ th’ Martians, from whence came That Ancus Martius, Numa’s daughter’s son, Who, after great Hostilius here was king, Of the same house Publius and Quintus were, That our best water brought by conduits hither; And Censorinus, that was so surnamed, And nobly named so, twice being censor, Was his great ancestor.

One thus descended, That hath beside well in his person wrought To be set high in place, we did commend To your remembrances; but you have found, Scaling his present bearing with his past, That he’s your fixed enemy, and revoke Your sudden approbation.

Say you ne’er had done’t— Harp on that still—but by our putting on. And presently when you have drawn your number, Repair to th’ Capitol.

We will so. Almost all Repent in their election.

[_Exeunt Plebeians._]

Let them go on. This mutiny were better put in hazard Than stay, past doubt, for greater. If, as his nature is, he fall in rage With their refusal, both observe and answer The vantage of his anger.

To th’ Capitol, come. We will be there before the stream o’ th’ people, And this shall seem, as partly ’tis, their own, Which we have goaded onward.

ACT III

SCENE I. Rome. A street

Cornets. Enter Coriolanus, Menenius, all the Gentry, Cominius, Titus Lartius and other Senators.

Tullus Aufidius then had made new head?

He had, my lord, and that it was which caused Our swifter composition.

So then the Volsces stand but as at first, Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make road Upon’s again.

They are worn, lord consul, so That we shall hardly in our ages see Their banners wave again.

Saw you Aufidius?

On safeguard he came to me, and did curse Against the Volsces, for they had so vilely Yielded the town. He is retired to Antium.

Spoke he of me?

He did, my lord.

How? What?

How often he had met you sword to sword; That of all things upon the earth he hated Your person most; that he would pawn his fortunes To hopeless restitution, so he might Be called your vanquisher.

At Antium lives he?

At Antium.

I wish I had a cause to seek him there, To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home.

Enter Sicinius and Brutus.

Behold, these are the tribunes of the people, The tongues o’ th’ common mouth. I do despise them, For they do prank them in authority Against all noble sufferance.

Pass no further.

Ha? What is that?

It will be dangerous to go on. No further.

What makes this change?

The matter?

Hath he not passed the noble and the common?

Cominius, no.

Have I had children’s voices?

FIRST SENATOR.

Tribunes, give way. He shall to the marketplace.

The people are incensed against him.

Stop, Or all will fall in broil.

Are these your herd? Must these have voices, that can yield them now And straight disclaim their tongues? What are your offices? You being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth? Have you not set them on?

Be calm, be calm.

It is a purposed thing, and grows by plot, To curb the will of the nobility. Suffer’t, and live with such as cannot rule Nor ever will be ruled.

Call’t not a plot. The people cry you mocked them; and, of late, When corn was given them gratis, you repined, Scandaled the suppliants for the people, called them Timepleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness.

Why, this was known before.

Not to them all.

Have you informed them sithence?

How? I inform them?

You are like to do such business.

Not unlike, each way, to better yours.

Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds, Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me Your fellow tribune.

You show too much of that For which the people stir. If you will pass To where you are bound, you must inquire your way, Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit, Or never be so noble as a consul, Nor yoke with him for tribune.

Let’s be calm.

The people are abused, set on. This palt’ring Becomes not Rome, nor has Coriolanus Deserved this so dishonoured rub, laid falsely I’ th’ plain way of his merit.

Tell me of corn? This was my speech, and I will speak’t again.

Not now, not now.

FIRST SENATOR.

Not in this heat, sir, now.

Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends, I crave their pardons. For The mutable, rank-scented many, let them Regard me, as I do not flatter, and Therein behold themselves. I say again, In soothing them we nourish ’gainst our senate The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition, Which we ourselves have ploughed for, sowed, and scattered By mingling them with us, the honoured number, Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that Which they have given to beggars.

Well, no more.

FIRST SENATOR.

No more words, we beseech you.

How? No more? As for my country I have shed my blood, Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs Coin words till their decay against those measles Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought The very way to catch them.

You speak o’ th’ people As if you were a god to punish, not A man of their infirmity.

’Twere well We let the people know’t.

What, what? His choler?

Choler? Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, By Jove, ’twould be my mind.

It is a mind That shall remain a poison where it is, Not poison any further.

“Shall remain”? Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute “shall”?

’Twas from the canon.

“Shall”? O good but most unwise patricians, why, You grave but reckless senators, have you thus Given Hydra leave to choose an officer, That with his peremptory “shall,” being but The horn and noise o’ th’ monster’s, wants not spirit To say he’ll turn your current in a ditch And make your channel his? If he have power, Then vail your ignorance; if none, awake Your dangerous lenity. If you are learned, Be not as common fools; if you are not, Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians, If they be senators; and they are no less When, both your voices blended, the great’st taste Most palates theirs. They choose their magistrate, And such a one as he, who puts his “shall,” His popular “shall,” against a graver bench Than ever frowned in Greece. By Jove himself, It makes the consuls base! And my soul aches To know, when two authorities are up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter ’twixt the gap of both and take The one by th’ other.

Well, on to th’ marketplace.

Whoever gave that counsel to give forth The corn o’ th’ storehouse gratis, as ’twas used Sometime in Greece—

Well, well, no more of that.

Though there the people had more absolute power, I say they nourished disobedience, fed The ruin of the state.

Why shall the people give One that speaks thus their voice?

I’ll give my reasons, More worthier than their voices. They know the corn Was not our recompense, resting well assured They ne’er did service for’t. Being pressed to th’ war, Even when the navel of the state was touched, They would not thread the gates. This kind of service Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i’ th’ war, Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they showed Most valour, spoke not for them. Th’ accusation Which they have often made against the Senate, All cause unborn, could never be the native Of our so frank donation. Well, what then? How shall this bosom multitude digest The senate’s courtesy? Let deeds express What’s like to be their words: “We did request it; We are the greater poll, and in true fear They gave us our demands.” Thus we debase The nature of our seats and make the rabble Call our cares fears, which will in time Break ope the locks o’ th’ Senate and bring in The crows to peck the eagles.

Come, enough.

Enough, with over-measure.

No, take more! What may be sworn by, both divine and human, Seal what I end withal! This double worship— Where one part does disdain with cause, the other Insult without all reason, where gentry, title, wisdom Cannot conclude but by the yea and no Of general ignorance—it must omit Real necessities and give way the while To unstable slightness. Purpose so barred, it follows Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech you— You that will be less fearful than discreet, That love the fundamental part of state More than you doubt the change on’t, that prefer A noble life before a long, and wish To jump a body with a dangerous physic That’s sure of death without it—at once pluck out The multitudinous tongue; let them not lick The sweet which is their poison. Your dishonour Mangles true judgment and bereaves the state Of that integrity which should become’t, Not having the power to do the good it would For th’ ill which doth control’t.

’Has said enough.

’Has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer As traitors do.

Thou wretch, despite o’erwhelm thee! What should the people do with these bald tribunes, On whom depending, their obedience fails To th’ greater bench. In a rebellion, When what’s not meet but what must be was law, Then were they chosen. In a better hour, Let what is meet be said it must be meet, And throw their power i’ th’ dust.

Manifest treason.

This a consul? No.

The aediles, ho! Let him be apprehended.

Enter an Aedile.

Go call the people;

[_Exit Aedile._]

in whose name myself Attach thee as a traitorous innovator, A foe to th’ public weal. Obey, I charge thee, And follow to thine answer.

Hence, old goat.

ALL PATRICIANS.

We’ll surety him.

[_to Sicinius_.] Aged sir, hands off.

[_to Sicinius_.] Hence, rotten thing, or I shall shake thy bones Out of thy garments.

Help, ye citizens!

Enter a rabble of Plebeians with the Aediles.

On both sides more respect!

Here’s he that would take from you all your power.

Seize him, aediles.

ALL PLEBEIANS.

Down with him, down with him!

SECOND SENATOR.

Weapons, weapons, weapons!

[_They all bustle about Coriolanus._]

Tribunes, patricians, citizens, what, ho! Sicinius, Brutus, Coriolanus, citizens!

Peace, peace, peace! Stay, hold, peace!

What is about to be? I am out of breath. Confusion’s near. I cannot speak. You tribunes To th’ people!—Coriolanus, patience!— Speak, good Sicinius.

Hear me, people! Peace!

ALL PLEBEIANS.

Let’s hear our tribune. Peace! Speak, speak, speak.

You are at point to lose your liberties. Martius would have all from you, Martius, Whom late you have named for consul.

Fie, fie, fie! This is the way to kindle, not to quench.

FIRST SENATOR.

To unbuild the city and to lay all flat.

What is the city but the people?

ALL PLEBEIANS.

True, The people are the city.

By the consent of all, we were established The people’s magistrates.

ALL PLEBEIANS.

You so remain.

And so are like to do.

That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the foundation And bury all which yet distinctly ranges In heaps and piles of ruin.

This deserves death.

Or let us stand to our authority Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce, Upon the part o’ th’ people, in whose power We were elected theirs, Martius is worthy Of present death.

Therefore lay hold of him, Bear him to th’ rock Tarpeian, and from thence Into destruction cast him.

Aediles, seize him!

ALL PLEBEIANS.

Yield, Martius, yield!

Hear me one word. Beseech you, tribunes, hear me but a word.

Peace, peace!

Be that you seem, truly your country’s friend, And temp’rately proceed to what you would Thus violently redress.

Sir, those cold ways, That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous Where the disease is violent.—Lay hands upon him, And bear him to the rock.

[_Coriolanus draws his sword._]

No; I’ll die here. There’s some among you have beheld me fighting. Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me.

Down with that sword!—Tribunes, withdraw awhile.

Lay hands upon him!

Help Martius, help! You that be noble, help him, young and old!

ALL PLEBEIANS.

Down with him, down with him!

[_In this mutiny the Tribunes, the Aediles and the People are beat in._]

Go, get you to your house. Begone, away. All will be naught else.

SECOND SENATOR.

Get you gone.

Stand fast! We have as many friends as enemies.

Shall it be put to that?

FIRST SENATOR.

The gods forbid! I prithee, noble friend, home to thy house; Leave us to cure this cause.

For ’tis a sore upon us You cannot tent yourself. Begone, beseech you.

Come, sir, along with us.

I would they were barbarians, as they are, Though in Rome littered, not Romans, as they are not, Though calved i’ th’ porch o’ th’ Capitol.

Begone! Put not your worthy rage into your tongue. One time will owe another.

On fair ground I could beat forty of them.

I could myself Take up a brace o’ th’ best of them, yea, the two tribunes.

But now ’tis odds beyond arithmetic, And manhood is called foolery when it stands Against a falling fabric. Will you hence, Before the tag return, whose rage doth rend Like interrupted waters, and o’erbear What they are used to bear?

Pray you, begone. I’ll try whether my old wit be in request With those that have but little. This must be patched With cloth of any colour.

Nay, come away.

[_Exeunt Coriolanus and Cominius._]

This man has marred his fortune.

His nature is too noble for the world. He would not flatter Neptune for his trident Or Jove for’s power to thunder. His heart’s his mouth; What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent, And, being angry, does forget that ever He heard the name of death.

[_A noise within._]

Here’s goodly work.

I would they were abed!

I would they were in Tiber! What the vengeance, Could he not speak ’em fair?

Enter Brutus and Sicinius with the rabble again.

Where is this viper That would depopulate the city and Be every man himself?

You worthy tribunes—

He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock With rigorous hands. He hath resisted law, And therefore law shall scorn him further trial Than the severity of the public power Which he so sets at naught.

FIRST CITIZEN.

He shall well know The noble tribunes are the people’s mouths, And we their hands.

ALL PLEBEIANS.

He shall, sure on’t.

Sir, sir—

Do not cry havoc where you should but hunt With modest warrant.

Sir, how comes’t that you Have holp to make this rescue?

Hear me speak. As I do know the Consul’s worthiness, So can I name his faults.

Consul? What consul?

The consul Coriolanus.

He consul?

ALL PLEBEIANS.

No, no, no, no, no!

If, by the Tribunes’ leave, and yours, good people, I may be heard, I would crave a word or two, The which shall turn you to no further harm Than so much loss of time.

Speak briefly then, For we are peremptory to dispatch This viperous traitor. To eject him hence Were but one danger, and to keep him here Our certain death. Therefore it is decreed He dies tonight.

Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enrolled In Jove’s own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat up her own.

He’s a disease that must be cut away.

O, he’s a limb that has but a disease— Mortal to cut it off; to cure it easy. What has he done to Rome that’s worthy death? Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost— Which I dare vouch is more than that he hath By many an ounce—he dropt it for his country; And what is left, to lose it by his country Were to us all, that do’t and suffer it A brand to th’ end o’ th’ world.

This is clean cam.

Merely awry. When he did love his country, It honoured him.

The service of the foot, Being once gangrened, is not then respected For what before it was.

We’ll hear no more. Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence, Lest his infection, being of catching nature, Spread further.

One word more, one word! This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find The harm of unscanned swiftness, will too late, Tie leaden pounds to’s heels. Proceed by process, Lest parties—as he is beloved—break out And sack great Rome with Romans.

If it were so—

What do ye talk? Have we not had a taste of his obedience? Our aediles smote! Ourselves resisted? Come.

Consider this: he has been bred i’ th’ wars Since he could draw a sword, and is ill schooled In bolted language; meal and bran together He throws without distinction. Give me leave, I’ll go to him and undertake to bring him Where he shall answer by a lawful form, In peace, to his utmost peril.

FIRST SENATOR.

Noble tribunes, It is the humane way: the other course Will prove too bloody, and the end of it Unknown to the beginning.

Noble Menenius, Be you then as the people’s officer.— Masters, lay down your weapons.

Go not home.

Meet on the marketplace. We’ll attend you there, Where if you bring not Martius, we’ll proceed In our first way.

I’ll bring him to you. [_To Senators_.] Let me desire your company. He must come, Or what is worst will follow.

FIRST SENATOR.

Pray you, let’s to him.

ACT III, SCENE II. Rome. A room in Coriolanus’s house

Enter Coriolanus with Nobles.

Let them pull all about mine ears, present me Death on the wheel or at wild horses’ heels, Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock, That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of sight, yet will I still Be thus to them.

FIRST PATRICIAN.

You do the nobler.

I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war.

Enter Volumnia.

I talk of you. Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me False to my nature? Rather say I play The man I am.

O, sir, sir, sir, I would have had you put your power well on Before you had worn it out.

Let go.

You might have been enough the man you are With striving less to be so. Lesser had been The thwartings of your dispositions if You had not showed them how ye were disposed Ere they lacked power to cross you.

Let them hang!

Ay, and burn too.

Enter Menenius with the Senators.

Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough. You must return and mend it.

FIRST SENATOR.

There’s no remedy, Unless, by not so doing, our good city Cleave in the midst and perish.

Pray be counselled. I have a heart as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better vantage.

Well said, noble woman. Before he should thus stoop to th’ herd—but that The violent fit o’ th’ time craves it as physic For the whole state—I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear.

What must I do?

Return to th’ Tribunes.

Well, what then? What then?

Repent what you have spoke.

For them? I cannot do it to the gods. Must I then do’t to them?

You are too absolute, Though therein you can never be too noble But when extremities speak. I have heard you say Honour and policy, like unsevered friends, I’ th’ war do grow together. Grant that, and tell me In peace what each of them by th’ other lose That they combine not there.

Tush, tush!

A good demand.

If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which for your best ends You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour as in war, since that to both It stands in like request?

Why force you this?

Because that now it lies you on to speak To th’ people, not by your own instruction, Nor by th’ matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but rooted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to your bosom’s truth. Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The hazard of much blood. I would dissemble with my nature where My fortunes and my friends at stake required I should do so in honour. I am in this Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles; And you will rather show our general louts How you can frown than spend a fawn upon ’em For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard Of what that want might ruin.

Noble lady!— Come, go with us; speak fair. You may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the loss Of what is past.

I prithee now, my son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand, And thus far having stretched it—here be with them— Thy knee bussing the stones—for in such busines Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th’ ignorant More learned than the ears—waving thy head, Which often thus correcting thy stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling. Or say to them Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils, Hast not the soft way, which thou dost confess Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person.

This but done Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For they have pardons, being asked, as free As words to little purpose.

Prithee now, Go, and be ruled; although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower.

Enter Cominius.

Here is Cominius.

I have been i’ th’ marketplace; and, sir, ’tis fit You make strong party or defend yourself By calmness or by absence. All’s in anger.

Only fair speech.

I think ’twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit.

He must, and will.— Prithee, now, say you will, and go about it.

Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce? Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do’t. Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Martius, they to dust should grind it And throw’t against the wind. To th’ marketplace! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to th’ life.

Come, come, we’ll prompt you.

I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before.

Well, I must do’t. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be turned, Which choired with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys’ tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar’s tongue Make motion through my lips, and my armed knees, Who bowed but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath received an alms! I will not do’t, Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth And, by my body’s action, teach my mind A most inherent baseness.

At thy choice, then. To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear Thy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine; thou suck’dst it from me, But owe thy pride thyself.

Pray, be content. Mother, I am going to the marketplace. Chide me no more. I’ll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloved Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going. Commend me to my wife. I’ll return consul, Or never trust to what my tongue can do I’ th’ way of flattery further.

Do your will.

[_Exit Volumnia._]

Away! The Tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself To answer mildly, for they are prepared With accusations, as I hear, more strong Than are upon you yet.

The word is “mildly.” Pray you, let us go. Let them accuse me by invention, I Will answer in mine honour.

Ay, but mildly.

Well, mildly be it, then. Mildly.

ACT III, SCENE III. Rome. The Forum

Enter Sicinius and Brutus.

In this point charge him home, that he affects Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to the people, And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne’er distributed.

Enter an Aedile.

What, will he come?

He’s coming.

How accompanied?

With old Menenius, and those senators That always favoured him.

Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have procured, Set down by th’ poll?

I have. ’Tis ready.

Have you collected them by tribes?

I have.

Assemble presently the people hither; And when they hear me say “It shall be so I’ th’ right and strength o’ th’ commons,” be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them If I say “Fine,” cry “Fine,” if “Death,” cry “Death,” Insisting on the old prerogative And power i’ th’ truth o’ th’ cause.

I shall inform them.

And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease, but with a din confused Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to sentence.

Very well.

Make them be strong and ready for this hint When we shall hap to give’t them.

Go about it.

[_Exit Aedile._]

Put him to choler straight. He hath been used Ever to conquer and to have his worth Of contradiction. Being once chafed, he cannot Be reined again to temperance; then he speaks What’s in his heart; and that is there which looks With us to break his neck.

Enter Coriolanus, Menenius and Cominius with other Senators.

Well, here he comes.

Calmly, I do beseech you.

Ay, as an ostler, that for th’ poorest piece Will bear the knave by th’ volume.—Th’ honoured gods Keep Rome in safety and the chairs of justice Supplied with worthy men! Plant love among’s! Throng our large temples with the shows of peace And not our streets with war!

FIRST SENATOR.

Amen, amen.

A noble wish.

Enter the Aedile with the Plebeians.

Draw near, ye people.

List to your tribunes. Audience! Peace, I say!

First, hear me speak.

BOTH TRIBUNES.

Well, say.—Peace, ho!

Shall I be charged no further than this present? Must all determine here?

I do demand If you submit you to the people’s voices, Allow their officers, and are content To suffer lawful censure for such faults As shall be proved upon you.

I am content.

Lo, citizens, he says he is content. The warlike service he has done, consider. Think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i’ th’ holy churchyard.

Scratches with briars, Scars to move laughter only.

Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen, You find him like a soldier. Do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds, But, as I say, such as become a soldier Rather than envy you.

Well, well, no more.

What is the matter, That, being passed for consul with full voice, I am so dishonoured that the very hour You take it off again?

Answer to us.

Say then. ’Tis true, I ought so.

We charge you that you have contrived to take From Rome all seasoned office and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical, For which you are a traitor to the people.

How? Traitor?

Nay, temperately! Your promise.

The fires i’ th’ lowest hell fold in the people! Call me their traitor? Thou injurious tribune! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, In thy hands clutched as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say “Thou liest” unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray the gods.

Mark you this, people?

ALL PLEBEIANS.

To th’ rock, to th’ rock with him!

Peace! We need not put new matter to his charge. What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing yourselves, Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying Those whose great power must try him—even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves th’ extremest death.

But since he hath Served well for Rome—

What do you prate of service?

I talk of that that know it.

Is this the promise that you made your mother?

Know, I pray you—

I’ll know no further. Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair word, Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have’t with saying “Good morrow.”

For that he has, As much as in him lies, from time to time Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power, as now at last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers That do distribute it, in the name o’ th’ people And in the power of us the Tribunes, we, Even from this instant, banish him our city In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter our Rome gates. I’ th’ people’s name, I say it shall be so.

ALL PLEBEIANS.

It shall be so, it shall be so! Let him away! He’s banished, and it shall be so.

Hear me, my masters and my common friends—

He’s sentenced. No more hearing.

Let me speak. I have been consul and can show for Rome Her enemies’ marks upon me. I do love My country’s good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife’s estimate, her womb’s increase, And treasure of my loins. Then if I would Speak that—

We know your drift. Speak what?

There’s no more to be said, but he is banished As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so.

ALL PLEBEIANS.

It shall be so, it shall be so!

You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate As reek o’ th’ rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you! And here remain with your uncertainty; Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts; Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair! Have the power still To banish your defenders, till at length Your ignorance—which finds not till it feels, Making but reservation of yourselves, Still your own foes—deliver you, As most abated captives to some nation That won you without blows! Despising For you the city, thus I turn my back. There is a world elsewhere.

[_Exeunt Coriolanus, Cominius, with other Senators._]

The people’s enemy is gone, is gone.

ALL PLEBEIANS.

Our enemy is banished; he is gone. Hoo, hoo!

[_They all shout and throw up their caps._]

Go see him out at gates, and follow him, As he hath followed you, with all despite. Give him deserved vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city.

ALL PLEBEIANS.

Come, come, let’s see him out at gates! Come! The gods preserve our noble tribunes! Come.

ACT IV

SCENE I. Rome. Before a gate of the city

Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Menenius, Cominius with the young nobility of Rome.

Come, leave your tears. A brief farewell. The beast With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? You were used To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm, all boats alike Showed mastership in floating; fortune’s blows When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were used to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conned them.

O heavens! O heavens!

Nay, I prithee, woman—

Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish!

What, what, what! I shall be loved when I am lacked. Nay, mother, Resume that spirit when you were wont to say If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you’d have done and saved Your husband so much sweat.—Cominius, Droop not. Adieu.—Farewell, my wife, my mother. I’ll do well yet.—Thou old and true Menenius, Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s And venomous to thine eyes.—My sometime general, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hard’ning spectacles. Tell these sad women ’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes As ’tis to laugh at ’em.—My mother, you wot well My hazards still have been your solace, and— Believe’t not lightly—though I go alone, Like to a lonely dragon that his fen Makes feared and talked of more than seen, your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice.

My first son, Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile. Determine on some course More than a wild exposture to each chance That starts i’ th’ way before thee.

O the gods!

I’ll follow thee a month, devise with thee Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us And we of thee; so if the time thrust forth A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send O’er the vast world to seek a single man And lose advantage, which doth ever cool I’ th’ absence of the needer.

Fare ye well. Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full Of the wars’ surfeits to go rove with one That’s yet unbruised. Bring me but out at gate.— Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch. When I am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come. While I remain above the ground, you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is like me formerly.

That’s worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I’d with thee every foot.

Give me thy hand. Come.

ACT IV, SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate

Enter two Tribunes, Sicinius, Brutus with the Aedile.

Bid them all home. He’s gone, and we’ll no further. The nobility are vexed, whom we see have sided In his behalf.

Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler after it is done Than when it was a-doing.

Bid them home. Say their great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength.

Dismiss them home.

[_Exit Aedile._]

Here comes his mother.

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia and Menenius.

Let’s not meet her.

They say she’s mad.

They have ta’en note of us. Keep on your way.

O, you’re well met. The hoarded plague o’ th’ gods Requite your love!

Peace, peace! Be not so loud.

If that I could for weeping, you should hear— Nay, and you shall hear some. [_To Sicinius_.] Will you be gone?

[_To Brutus_.] You shall stay too. I would I had the power To say so to my husband.

Are you mankind?

Ay, fool, is that a shame? Note but this, fool. Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship To banish him that struck more blows for Rome Than thou hast spoken words?

O blessed heavens!

More noble blows than ever thou wise words, And for Rome’s good. I’ll tell thee what—yet go. Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son Were in Arabia and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand.

What then?

What then? He’d make an end of thy posterity.

Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome!

Come, come, peace.

I would he had continued to his country As he began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made.

I would he had.

“I would he had?” ’Twas you incensed the rabble. Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have Earth to know.

Pray, let’s go.

Now, pray, sir, get you gone. You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son— This lady’s husband here, this, do you see?— Whom you have banished, does exceed you all.

Well, well, we’ll leave you.

Why stay we to be baited With one that wants her wits?

[_Exeunt Tribunes._]

Take my prayers with you. I would the gods had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses. Could I meet ’em But once a day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to’t.

You have told them home, And, by my troth, you have cause. You’ll sup with me?

Anger’s my meat. I sup upon myself And so shall starve with feeding. Come, let’s go. Leave this faint puling, and lament as I do, In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come.

Fie, fie, fie!

[_Exit Menenius._]

ACT IV, SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium

Enter a Roman and a Volsce.

I know you well, sir, and you know me. Your name I think is Adrian.

It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you.

I am a Roman, and my services are, as you are, against ’em. Know you me yet?

Nicanor, no?

The same, sir.

You had more beard when I last saw you, but your favour is well approved by your tongue. What’s the news in Rome? I have a note from the Volscian state to find you out there. You have well saved me a day’s journey.

There hath been in Rome strange insurrections, the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles.

Hath been? Is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so. They are in a most warlike preparation and hope to come upon them in the heat of their division.

The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again; for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy Coriolanus that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out.

Coriolanus banished?

Banished, sir.

You will be welcome with this intelligence, Nicanor.

The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said the fittest time to corrupt a man’s wife is when she’s fallen out with her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his great opposer Coriolanus being now in no request of his country.

He cannot choose. I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you. You have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home.

I shall between this and supper tell you most strange things from Rome, all tending to the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you?

A most royal one. The centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in th’ entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour’s warning.

I am joyful to hear of their readiness and am the man, I think, that shall set them in present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company.

You take my part from me, sir. I have the most cause to be glad of yours.

Well, let us go together.

ACT IV, SCENE IV. Antium. Before Aufidius’s house

Enter Coriolanus in mean apparel, disguised and muffled.

A goodly city is this Antium. City, ’Tis I that made thy widows. Many an heir Of these fair edifices ’fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me not, Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones In puny battle slay me.

Enter a Citizen.

Save you, sir.

And you.

Direct me, if it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium?

He is, and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night.

Which is his house, beseech you?

This here before you.

Thank you, sir. Farewell.

[_Exit Citizen._]

O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as ’twere, in love Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birthplace hate I, and my love’s upon This enemy town. I’ll enter. If he slay me, He does fair justice; if he give me way, I’ll do his country service.

ACT IV, SCENE V. Antium. A hall in Aufidius’s house

Music plays. Enter a Servingman.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Wine, wine, wine! What service is here? I think our fellows are asleep.

Enter another Servingman.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Where’s Cotus? My master calls for him. Cotus!

Enter Coriolanus.

A goodly house. The feast smells well, but I Appear not like a guest.

Enter the First Servingman.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here’s no place for you. Pray go to the door.

I have deserved no better entertainment In being Coriolanus.

Enter Second Servingman.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Whence are you, sir?—Has the porter his eyes in his head, that he gives entrance to such companions?—Pray, get you out.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Away? Get you away.

Now th’ art troublesome.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Are you so brave? I’ll have you talked with anon.

Enter Third Servingman; the First, entering, meets him.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

What fellow’s this?

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

A strange one as ever I looked on. I cannot get him out o’ th’ house. Prithee call my master to him.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

What have you to do here, fellow? Pray you, avoid the house.

Let me but stand. I will not hurt your hearth.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

What are you?

A gentleman.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

A marv’llous poor one.

True, so I am.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station. Here’s no place for you. Pray you, avoid. Come.

Follow your function, go, and batten on cold bits.

[_Pushes him away from him_.]

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

What, you will not?—Prithee, tell my master what a strange guest he has here.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

And I shall.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Where dwell’st thou?

Under the canopy.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Under the canopy?

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Where’s that?

I’ th’ city of kites and crows.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

I’ th’ city of kites and crows? What an ass it is! Then thou dwell’st with daws too?

No, I serve not thy master.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

How, sir? Do you meddle with my master?

Ay, ’tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. Thou prat’st and prat’st. Serve with thy trencher, hence!

[_Beats him away_.]

[_Exit Third Servingman._]

Enter Aufidius with the Second Servingman.

Where is this fellow?

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Here, sir. I’d have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the lords within.

Whence com’st thou? What wouldst thou? Thy name? Why speak’st not? Speak, man. What’s thy name?

[_Removing his muffler_.] If, Tullus, Not yet thou know’st me, and, seeing me, dost not Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself.

What is thy name?

A name unmusical to the Volscians’ ears And harsh in sound to thine.

Say, what’s thy name? Thou has a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in’t. Though thy tackle’s torn, Thou show’st a noble vessel. What’s thy name?

Prepare thy brow to frown. Know’st thou me yet?

I know thee not. Thy name?

My name is Caius Martius, who hath done To thee particularly and to all the Volsces Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may My surname Coriolanus. The painful service, The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless country are requited But with that surname, a good memory And witness of the malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name remains. The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have all forsook me, hath devoured the rest, And suffered me by th’ voice of slaves to be Whooped out of Rome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth, not out of hope— Mistake me not—to save my life; for if I had feared death, of all the men i’ th’ world I would have ’voided thee, but in mere spite, To be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it That my revengeful services may prove As benefits to thee, for I will fight Against my cankered country with the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar’st not this, and that to prove more fortunes Thou ’rt tired, then, in a word, I also am Longer to live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice, Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever followed thee with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast, And cannot live but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service.

O Martius, Martius, Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond cloud speak divine things And say ’tis true, I’d not believe them more Than thee, all-noble Martius. Let me twine Mine arms about that body, whereagainst My grained ash an hundred times hath broke And scarred the moon with splinters. Here I clip The anvil of my sword and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married; never man Sighed truer breath. But that I see thee here, Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell thee We have a power on foot, and I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn Or lose mine arm for’t. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since Dreamt of encounters ’twixt thyself and me; We have been down together in my sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other’s throat, And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy Martius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou art thence banished, we would muster all From twelve to seventy and, pouring war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o’erbear ’t. O, come, go in, And take our friendly senators by th’ hands, Who now are here, taking their leaves of me, Who am prepared against your territories, Though not for Rome itself.

You bless me, gods!

Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take Th’ one half of my commission and set down— As best thou art experienced, since thou know’st Thy country’s strength and weakness—thine own ways, Whether to knock against the gates of Rome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote To fright them ere destroy. But come in. Let me commend thee first to those that shall Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e’er an enemy— Yet, Martius, that was much. Your hand. Most welcome!

[_Exeunt Coriolanus and Aufidius._]

Two of the Servingmen come forward.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Here’s a strange alteration!

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel, and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false report of him.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

What an arm he has! He turned me about with his finger and his thumb as one would set up a top.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him. He had, sir, a kind of face, methought—I cannot tell how to term it.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

He had so, looking as it were—Would I were hanged, but I thought there was more in him than I could think.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

So did I, I’ll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i’ th’ world.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

I think he is. But a greater soldier than he you wot one.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Who, my master?

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Nay, it’s no matter for that.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Worth six on him.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Nay, not so neither. But I take him to be the greater soldier.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that. For the defence of a town our general is excellent.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Ay, and for an assault too.

Enter the Third Servingman.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

O slaves, I can tell you news, news, you rascals!

FIRST and SECOND SERVINGMAN. What, what, what? Let’s partake.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lief be a condemned man.

FIRST and SECOND SERVINGMAN. Wherefore? Wherefore?

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Why, here’s he that was wont to thwack our general, Caius Martius.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Why do you say, “thwack our general”?

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

I do not say “thwack our general,” but he was always good enough for him.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him; I have heard him say so himself.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on’t, before Corioles; he scotched him and notched him like a carbonado.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

An he had been cannibally given, he might have boiled and eaten him too.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

But, more of thy news?

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Why, he is so made on here within as if he were son and heir to Mars; set at upper end o’ th’ table; no question asked him by any of the senators but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress of him, sanctifies himself with’s hand, and turns up the white o’ th’ eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i’ th’ middle and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half, by the entreaty and grant of the whole table. He’ll go, he says, and sowl the porter of Rome gates by th’ ears. He will mow all down before him and leave his passage polled.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

And he’s as like to do’t as any man I can imagine.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Do’t? He will do’t! For look you, sir, he has as many friends as enemies, which friends, sir, as it were, durst not, look you, sir, show themselves, as we term it, his friends whilest he’s in directitude.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Directitude? What’s that?

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

But when they shall see, sir, his crest up again, and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows like coneys after rain, and revel all with him.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

But when goes this forward?

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Tomorrow, today, presently. You shall have the drum struck up this afternoon. ’Tis as it were parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

Why then, we shall have a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase tailors, and breed ballad-makers.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Let me have war, say I. It exceeds peace as far as day does night. It’s sprightly walking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war’s a destroyer of men.

SECOND SERVINGMAN.

’Tis so, and as war in some sort, may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds.

FIRST SERVINGMAN.

Ay, and it makes men hate one another.

THIRD SERVINGMAN.

Reason: because they then less need one another. The wars for my money! I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising; they are rising.

In, in, in, in!

ACT IV, SCENE VI. Rome. A public place

Enter the two Tribunes. Sicinius and Brutus.

We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies are tame—the present peace, And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends Blush that the world goes well, who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by’t, behold Dissentious numbers pest’ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops and going About their functions friendly.

We stood to’t in good time.

Enter Menenius.

Is this Menenius?

’Tis he, ’tis he. O, he is grown most kind Of late.—Hail, sir!

Hail to you both.

Your Coriolanus is not much missed But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so would do were he more angry at it.

All’s well, and might have been much better if He could have temporized.

Where is he, hear you?

Nay, I hear nothing; His mother and his wife hear nothing from him.

Enter three or four Citizens.

ALL CITIZENS.

The gods preserve you both!

Good e’en, our neighbours.

Good e’en to you all, good e’en to you all.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray for you both.

Live and thrive!

Farewell, kind neighbours. We wished Coriolanus Had loved you as we did.

Now the gods keep you!

BOTH TRIBUNES.

Farewell, farewell.

[_Exeunt Citizens._]

This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying confusion.

Caius Martius was A worthy officer i’ th’ war, but insolent, O’ercome with pride, ambitious, past all thinking Self-loving.

And affecting one sole throne, without assistance.

I think not so.

We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so.

The gods have well prevented it, and Rome Sits safe and still without him.

Enter an Aedile.

Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with two several powers Are entered in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before ’em.

’Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Martius’ banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshelled when Martius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out.

Come, what talk you of Martius?

Go see this rumourer whipped. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us.

Cannot be? We have record that very well it can, And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded.

Tell not me. I know this cannot be.

Not possible.

Enter a Messenger.

The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House. Some news is coming That turns their countenances.

’Tis this slave— Go whip him ’fore the people’s eyes—his raising, Nothing but his report.

Yes, worthy sir, The slave’s report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is delivered.

What more fearful?

It is spoke freely out of many mouths— How probable I do not know—that Martius, Joined with Aufidius, leads a power ’gainst Rome And vows revenge as spacious as between The young’st and oldest thing.

This is most likely!

Raised only that the weaker sort may wish Good Martius home again.

The very trick on ’t.

This is unlikely; He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent’st contrariety.

Enter a Second Messenger.

SECOND MESSENGER.

You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Martius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O’erborne their way, consumed with fire and took What lay before them.

Enter Cominius.

O, you have made good work!

What news? What news?

You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonoured to your noses—

What’s the news? What’s the news?

Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confined Into an auger’s bore.

Pray now, your news?— You have made fair work, I fear me.—Pray, your news? If Martius should be joined with Volscians—

If? He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies Or butchers killing flies.

You have made good work, You and your apron-men, you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic eaters!

He’ll shake your Rome about your ears.

As Hercules did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work.

But is this true, sir?

Ay, and you’ll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mocked for valiant ignorance And perish constant fools. Who is’t can blame him? Your enemies and his find something in him.

We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy.

Who shall ask it? The Tribunes cannot do’t for shame; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds. For his best friends, if they Should say “Be good to Rome,” they charged him even As those should do that had deserved his hate And therein showed like enemies.

’Tis true. If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say “Beseech you, cease.”—You have made fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair!

You have brought A trembling upon Rome such as was never S’ incapable of help.

Say not we brought it.

How? Was it we? We loved him, but like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o’ th’ city.

But I fear They’ll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer. Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence That Rome can make against them.

Enter a troop of Citizens.

Here comes the clusters.— And is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast Your stinking, greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus’ exile. Now he’s coming, And not a hair upon a soldier’s head Which will not prove a whip. As many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down And pay you for your voices. ’Tis no matter. If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserved it.

ALL CITIZENS.

Faith, we hear fearful news.

FIRST CITIZEN.

For mine own part, When I said banish him, I said ’twas pity.

SECOND CITIZEN.

And so did I.

THIRD CITIZEN.

And so did I. And, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will.

You are goodly things, you voices!

You have made good work, you and your cry!— Shall’s to the Capitol?

O, ay, what else?

[_Exeunt Cominius and Menenius._]

Go, masters, get you home. Be not dismayed. These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear.

FIRST CITIZEN.

The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let’s home. I ever said we were i’ th’ wrong when we banished him.

SECOND CITIZEN.

So did we all. But, come, let’s home.

[_Exeunt Citizens._]

I do not like this news.

Nor I.

Let’s to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie!

Pray let’s go.

ACT IV, SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance from Rome

Enter Aufidius with his Lieutenant.

Do they still fly to th’ Roman?

I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace ’fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark’ned in this action, sir, Even by your own.

I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him. Yet his nature In that’s no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended.

Yet I wish, sir— I mean for your particular—you had not Joined in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself or else To him had left it solely.

I understand thee well, and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him, although it seems, And so he thinks and is no less apparent To th’ vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly, And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragonlike, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene’er we come to our account.

Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry Rome?

All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The Senators and Patricians love him too. The Tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he’ll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First, he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether ’twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th’ casque to th’ cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controlled the war; but one of these— As he hath spices of them all—not all, For I dare so far free him—made him feared, So hated, and so banished. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt’rance. So our virtues Lie in th’ interpretation of the time, And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair T’ extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire, one nail one nail; Rights by rights falter; strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor’st of all; then shortly art thou mine.

ACT V

SCENE I. Rome. A public place

Enter Menenius, Cominius, Sicinius, Brutus (the two Tribunes), with others.

No, I’ll not go. You hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general, who loved him In a most dear particular. He called me father, But what o’ that? Go you that banished him; A mile before his tent, fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coyed To hear Cominius speak, I’ll keep at home.

He would not seem to know me.

Do you hear?

Yet one time he did call me by my name. I urged our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. “Coriolanus” He would not answer to, forbade all names. He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forged himself a name i’ th’ fire Of burning Rome.

Why, so; you have made good work! A pair of tribunes that have wracked Rome To make coals cheap! A noble memory!

I minded him how royal ’twas to pardon When it was less expected. He replied It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punished.

Very well. Could he say less?

I offered to awaken his regard For’s private friends. His answer to me was He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff. He said ’twas folly For one poor grain or two to leave unburnt And still to nose th’ offence.

For one poor grain or two! I am one of those! His mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too, we are the grains; You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt Above the moon. We must be burnt for you.

Nay, pray, be patient. If you refuse your aid In this so-never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid’s with our distress. But sure, if you Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make, Might stop our countryman.

No, I’ll not meddle.

Pray you, go to him.

What should I do?

Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Martius.

Well, and say that Martius Return me, as Cominius is returned, unheard, What then? But as a discontented friend, Grief-shot with his unkindness? Say’t be so?

Yet your good will Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure As you intended well.

I’ll undertake’t. I think he’ll hear me. Yet to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me. He was not taken well; he had not dined. The veins unfilled, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuffed These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priestlike fasts. Therefore I’ll watch him Till he be dieted to my request, And then I’ll set upon him.

You know the very road into his kindness And cannot lose your way.

Good faith, I’ll prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success.

He’ll never hear him.

I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye Red as ’twould burn Rome; and his injury The jailer to his pity. I kneeled before him; ’Twas very faintly he said “Rise”; dismissed me Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do He sent in writing after me; what he Would not, bound with an oath to yield to his Conditions. So that all hope is vain Unless his noble mother and his wife, Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore let’s hence And with our fair entreaties haste them on.

ACT V, SCENE II. An Advanced post of the Volscian camp before Rome.

Enter Menenius to the Watch, or Guard.

FIRST WATCH.

Stay! Whence are you?

SECOND WATCH.

Stand, and go back.

You guard like men; ’tis well. But by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To speak with Coriolanus.

FIRST WATCH.

From whence?

From Rome.

FIRST WATCH.

You may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from thence.

SECOND WATCH.

You’ll see your Rome embraced with fire before You’ll speak with Coriolanus.

Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name hath touched your ears. It is Menenius.

FIRST WATCH.

Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name Is not here passable.

I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts, whence men have read His fame unparalleled happily amplified; For I have ever verified my friends— Of whom he’s chief—with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamped the leasing. Therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass.

FIRST WATCH.

Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here, no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore, go back.

Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general.

SECOND WATCH.

Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back.

Has he dined, can’st thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner.

FIRST WATCH.

You are a Roman, are you?

I am, as thy general is.

FIRST WATCH.

Then you should hate Rome as he does. Can you, when you have pushed out your gates the very defender of them, and, in a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decayed dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceived. Therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemned. Our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon.

Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation.

SECOND WATCH.

Come, my captain knows you not.

I mean thy general.

FIRST WATCH.

My general cares not for you. Back, I say, go, lest I let forth your half pint of blood. Back! That’s the utmost of your having. Back!

Nay, but fellow, fellow—

Enter Coriolanus with Aufidius.

What’s the matter?

Now, you companion, I’ll say an errand for you. You shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my entertainment with him if thou stand’st not i’ th’ state of hanging or of some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what’s to come upon thee. [_to Coriolanus_.] The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son, my son! Thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here’s water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here, this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee.

How? Away?

Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore begone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I loved thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake,

[_He gives Menenius a paper._]

And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak.—This man, Aufidius, Was my beloved in Rome; yet thou behold’st.

You keep a constant temper.

[_They exit._]

[_The Guard and Menenius remain._]

FIRST WATCH.

Now, sir, is your name Menenius?

SECOND WATCH.

’Tis a spell, you see, of much power. You know the way home again.

FIRST WATCH.

Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your Greatness back?

SECOND WATCH.

What cause do you think I have to swoon?

I neither care for th’ world nor your general. For such things as you, I can scarce think there’s any, you’re so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to, away!

FIRST WATCH.

A noble fellow, I warrant him.

SECOND WATCH.

The worthy fellow is our general. He is the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken.

ACT V, SCENE III. The tent of Coriolanus

Enter Coriolanus and Aufidius.

We will before the walls of Rome tomorrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th’ Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business.

Only their ends You have respected, stopped your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper, no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you.

This last old man, Whom with cracked heart I have sent to Rome, Loved me above the measure of a father, Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him, for whose old love I have— Though I showed sourly to him—once more offered The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept, to grace him only That thought he could do more. A very little I have yielded to. Fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to.

[_Shout within._]

Ha? What shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time ’tis made? I will not.

Enter Virgilia, Volumnia, Valeria, young Martius with attendants.

My wife comes foremost, then the honoured mold Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? Or those doves’ eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great Nature cries “Deny not!” Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy, I’ll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself, And knew no other kin.

My lord and husband.

These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.

The sorrow that delivers us thus changed Makes you think so.

Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny, but do not say For that, “Forgive our Romans.”

[_They kiss._]

O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgined it e’er since. You gods! I prate And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i’ th’ earth;

Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons.

O, stand up blest,

[_He rises_.]

Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent.

[_She kneels._]

What is this? Your knees to me? To your corrected son?

[_He raises her up._]

Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars! Then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun, Murdering impossibility to make What cannot be slight work.

Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?

The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow And hangs on Dian’s temple!—Dear Valeria.

This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th’ interpretation of full time May show like all yourself.

The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ th’ wars Like a great seamark standing every flaw And saving those that eye thee.

[_To young Martius_.] Your knee, sirrah.

[_He kneels._]

That’s my brave boy!

Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself Are suitors to you.

[_Young Martius rises._]

I beseech you, peace; Or, if you’d ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers or capitulate Again with Rome’s mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T’ allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons.

O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us anything; For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already. Yet we will ask, That if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness. Therefore hear us.

Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark, for we’ll Hear naught from Rome in private. Your request?

Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child to see The son, the husband, and the father tearing His country’s bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity’s most capital. Thou barr’st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we— Alas, how can we—for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win, for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children’s blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine. If I cannot persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread— Trust to’t, thou shalt not—on thy mother’s womb That brought thee to this world.

Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time.

YOUNG MARTIUS.

He shall not tread on me. I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight.

Not of a woman’s tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see.— I have sat too long.

[_He rises._]

Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so, that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them, while the Volsces May say “This mercy we have showed,” the Romans “This we received,” and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee and cry, “Be blessed For making up this peace!” Thou know’st, great son, The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogged with curses, Whose chronicle thus writ: “The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wiped it out; Destroyed his country, and his name remains To th’ ensuing age abhorred.” Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o’ th’ air And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs?—Daughter, speak you. He cares not for your weeping.—Speak thou, boy. Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons.—There’s no man in the world More bound to’s mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i’ th’ stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Showed thy dear mother any courtesy When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has clucked thee to the wars and safely home, Loaden with honour. Say my request’s unjust And spurn me back; but if it be not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee That thou restrain’st from me the duty which To a mother’s part belongs.—He turns away.— Down, ladies! Let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus ’longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down! An end.

[_They kneel._]

This is the last. So we will home to Rome And die among our neighbours.—Nay, behold’s. This boy that cannot tell what he would have, But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny’t.—Come, let us go.

[_They rise._]

This fellow had a Volscian to his mother, His wife is in Corioles, and his child Like him by chance.—Yet give us our dispatch. I am hushed until our city be afire, And then I’ll speak a little.

[_He holds her by the hand, silent._]

O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother, O! You have won a happy victory to Rome, But, for your son—believe it, O, believe it!— Most dangerously you have with him prevailed, If not most mortal to him. But let it come.— Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I’ll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less? Or granted less, Aufidius?

I was moved withal.

I dare be sworn you were. And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you’ll make, advise me. For my part, I’ll not to Rome, I’ll back with you; and pray you, Stand to me in this cause.—O mother!—Wife!

[_He speaks with them aside._]

[_Aside_.] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I’ll work Myself a former fortune.

[_To the Women_.] Ay, by and by; But we’ll drink together, and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have countersealed. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace.

ACT V, SCENE IV. Rome. A public place

Enter Menenius and Sicinius.

See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond cornerstone?

Why, what of that?

If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in’t. Our throats are sentenced and stay upon execution.

Is’t possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man?

There is differency between a grub and a butterfly, yet your butterfly was a grub. This Martius is grown from man to dragon. He has wings; he’s more than a creeping thing.

He loved his mother dearly.

So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes. When he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in.

Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger. That shall our poor city find, and all this is long of you.

The gods be good unto us.

No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banished him, we respected not them; and he returning to break our necks, they respect not us.

Enter a Messenger.

Sir, if you’d save your life, fly to your house. The plebeians have got your fellow tribune And hale him up and down, all swearing if The Roman ladies bring not comfort home, They’ll give him death by inches.

Enter another Messenger.

What’s the news?

SECOND MESSENGER.

Good news, good news! The ladies have prevailed. The Volscians are dislodged and Martius gone. A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th’ expulsion of the Tarquins.

Friend, Art thou certain this is true? Is’t most certain?

SECOND MESSENGER.

As certain as I know the sun is fire. Where have you lurked that you make doubt of it? Ne’er through an arch so hurried the blown tide As the recomforted through th’ gates. Why, hark you!

[_Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat, all together._]

The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans Make the sun dance. Hark you!

[_A shout within._]

This is good news. I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians A city full; of tribunes such as you A sea and land full. You have prayed well today. This morning for ten thousand of your throats I’d not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!

[_Sound still with the shouts._]

First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next, accept my thankfulness.

SECOND MESSENGER.

Sir, we have all great cause to give great thanks.

They are near the city?

Almost at point to enter.

We’ll meet them, and help the joy.

ACT V, SCENE V. Rome. A street near the gate

Enter two Senators, with Ladies (Volumnia, Virgilia, Valeria) passing over the stage, with other Lords.

Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, And make triumphant fires. Strew flowers before them, Unshout the noise that banished Martius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother. Cry “Welcome, ladies, welcome!”

Welcome, ladies, welcome!

[_A flourish with drums and trumpets._]

ACT V, SCENE VI. Antium. A public place

Enter Tullus Aufidius with Attendants.

Go tell the lords o’ th’ city I am here. Deliver them this paper.

[_He gives them a paper_.]

Having read it, Bid them repair to th’ marketplace, where I, Even in theirs and in the commons’ ears, Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this hath entered and Intends t’ appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words. Dispatch.

[_Exeunt Attendants._]

Enter three or four Conspirators of Aufidius’s faction.

Most welcome!

FIRST CONSPIRATOR.

How is it with our general?

Even so As with a man by his own alms empoisoned And with his charity slain.

SECOND CONSPIRATOR.

Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wished us parties, we’ll deliver you Of your great danger.

Sir, I cannot tell. We must proceed as we do find the people.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR.

The people will remain uncertain whilst ’Twixt you there’s difference, but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all.

I know it, And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I raised him, and I pawned Mine honour for his truth, who being so heightened, He watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to this end, He bowed his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable, and free.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR.

Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul, which he lost By lack of stooping—

That I would have spoke of. Being banished for’t, he came unto my hearth, Presented to my knife his throat. I took him, Made him joint servant with me, gave him way In all his own desires; nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, My best and freshest men; served his designments In mine own person; holp to reap the fame Which he did end all his; and took some pride To do myself this wrong; till at the last I seemed his follower, not partner; and He waged me with his countenance as if I had been mercenary.

FIRST CONSPIRATOR.

So he did, my lord. The army marvelled at it, and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we looked For no less spoil than glory—

There was it For which my sinews shall be stretched upon him. At a few drops of women’s rheum, which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action. Therefore shall he die, And I’ll renew me in his fall. But, hark!

[_Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the people._]

FIRST CONSPIRATOR.

Your native town you entered like a post And had no welcomes home, but he returns Splitting the air with noise.

SECOND CONSPIRATOR.

And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR.

Therefore at your vantage, Ere he express himself or move the people With what he would say, let him feel your sword, Which we will second. When he lies along, After your way his tale pronounced shall bury His reasons with his body.

Say no more. Here come the lords.

Enter the Lords of the city.

ALL LORDS.

You are most welcome home.

I have not deserved it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you?

ALL LORDS.

We have.

FIRST LORD.

And grieve to hear’t. What faults he made before the last, I think Might have found easy fines, but there to end Where he was to begin and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding—this admits no excuse.

Enter Coriolanus marching with Drum and Colours, the Commoners being with him.

He approaches. You shall hear him.

Hail, lords! I am returned your soldier, No more infected with my country’s love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Doth more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to th’ Romans, and we here deliver, Subscribed by th’ Consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o’ th’ Senate, what We have compounded on.

[_He offers the lords a paper._]

Read it not, noble lords, But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abused your powers.

“Traitor?” How now?

Ay, traitor, Martius.

Ay, Martius, Caius Martius. Dost thou think I’ll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol’n name Coriolanus, in Corioles? You lords and heads o’ th’ state, perfidiously He has betrayed your business and given up For certain drops of salt your city Rome— I say your city—to his wife and mother, Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk, never admitting Counsel o’ th’ war, but at his nurse’s tears He whined and roared away your victory, That pages blushed at him and men of heart Looked wond’ring each at other.

Hear’st thou, Mars?

Name not the god, thou boy of tears.

No more.

Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. “Boy”? O slave!— Pardon me, lords, ’tis the first time that ever I was forced to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his own notion— Who wears my stripes impressed upon him, that Must bear my beating to his grave—shall join To thrust the lie unto him.

FIRST LORD.

Peace, both, and hear me speak.

Cut me to pieces, Volsces. Men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. “Boy”? False hound! If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there, That like an eagle in a dovecote, I Fluttered your Volscians in Corioles, Alone I did it. “Boy”!

Why, noble lords, Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, ’Fore your own eyes and ears?

ALL CONSPIRATORS.

Let him die for’t.

ALL PEOPLE Tear him to pieces! Do it presently! He killed my son! My daughter! He killed my cousin Marcus! He killed my father!

SECOND LORD.

Peace, ho! No outrage! Peace! The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o’ th’ Earth. His last offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace.

O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe, To use my lawful sword.

Insolent villain!

ALL CONSPIRATORS.

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him!

[_Draw the Conspirators, and kills Martius, who falls. Aufidius stands on him._]

Hold, hold, hold, hold!

My noble masters, hear me speak.

FIRST LORD.

O Tullus!

SECOND LORD.

Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep.

THIRD LORD.

Tread not upon him.—Masters, all be quiet.— Put up your swords.

My lords, when you shall know—as in this rage, Provoked by him, you cannot—the great danger Which this man’s life did owe you, you’ll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your Honours To call me to your senate, I’ll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure.

FIRST LORD.

Bear from hence his body, And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his urn.

SECOND LORD.

His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. Let’s make the best of it.

My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow.—Take him up. Help, three o’ th’ chiefest soldiers; I’ll be one.— Beat thou the drum that it speak mournfully.— Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.

[_Exeunt, bearing the body of Martius. A dead march sounded._]

Contents — 24 sections

1. ACT I
2. ACT III
3. ACT IV
4. ACT V
5. ACT I
6. ACT I, SCENE II. Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle.
7. ACT I, SCENE III. A room in Polonius’s house.
8. ACT I, SCENE IV. The platform.
9. ACT I, SCENE V. A more remote part of the Castle.
10. ACT II
11. ACT II, SCENE II. A room in the Castle.
12. ACT III
13. ACT III, SCENE II. A hall in the Castle.
14. ACT III, SCENE III. A room in the Castle.
15. ACT III, SCENE IV. Another room in the Castle.
16. ACT IV
17. ACT IV, SCENE II. Another room in the Castle.
18. ACT IV, SCENE III. Another room in the Castle.
19. ACT IV, SCENE IV. A plain in Denmark.
20. ACT IV, SCENE V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle.
21. ACT IV, SCENE VI. Another room in the Castle.
22. ACT IV, SCENE VII. Another room in the Castle.
23. ACT V
24. ACT V, SCENE II. A hall in the Castle.

ACT I

Scene I. Elsinore. A platform before the Castle Scene II. Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle Scene III. A room in Polonius’s house Scene IV. The platform Scene V. A more remote part of the Castle

ACT III

Scene I. A room in the Castle Scene II. A hall in the Castle Scene III. A room in the Castle Scene IV. Another room in the Castle

ACT IV

Scene I. A room in the Castle Scene II. Another room in the Castle Scene III. Another room in the Castle Scene IV. A plain in Denmark Scene V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle Scene VI. Another room in the Castle Scene VII. Another room in the Castle

ACT V

Scene I. A churchyard Scene II. A hall in the Castle

Dramatis Personæ

HAMLET, Prince of Denmark CLAUDIUS, King of Denmark, Hamlet’s uncle The GHOST of the late king, Hamlet’s father GERTRUDE, the Queen, Hamlet’s mother, now wife of Claudius POLONIUS, Lord Chamberlain LAERTES, Son to Polonius OPHELIA, Daughter to Polonius HORATIO, Friend to Hamlet FORTINBRAS, Prince of Norway VOLTEMAND, Courtier CORNELIUS, Courtier ROSENCRANTZ, Courtier GUILDENSTERN, Courtier MARCELLUS, Officer BARNARDO, Officer FRANCISCO, a Soldier OSRIC, Courtier REYNALDO, Servant to Polonius Players A Gentleman, Courtier A Priest Two Clowns, Grave-diggers A Captain English Ambassadors. Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and Attendants

SCENE. Elsinore.

ACT I

SCENE I. Elsinore. A platform before the Castle.

Enter Francisco and Barnardo, two sentinels.

Who’s there?

Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself.

Long live the King!

You come most carefully upon your hour.

’Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.

For this relief much thanks. ’Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.

Have you had quiet guard?

Not a mouse stirring.

Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who is there?

Friends to this ground.

And liegemen to the Dane.

Give you good night.

O, farewell, honest soldier, who hath reliev’d you?

Barnardo has my place. Give you good-night.

Holla, Barnardo!

Say, what, is Horatio there?

A piece of him.

Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus.

What, has this thing appear’d again tonight?

I have seen nothing.

Horatio says ’tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us. Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night, That if again this apparition come He may approve our eyes and speak to it.

Tush, tush, ’twill not appear.

Sit down awhile, And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we two nights have seen.

Well, sit we down, And let us hear Barnardo speak of this.

Last night of all, When yond same star that’s westward from the pole, Had made his course t’illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one—

Peace, break thee off. Look where it comes again.

Enter Ghost.

In the same figure, like the King that’s dead.

Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.

Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio.

Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder.

BARNARDO It would be spoke to.

Question it, Horatio.

What art thou that usurp’st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak.

It is offended.

See, it stalks away.

Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak!

[_Exit Ghost._]

’Tis gone, and will not answer.

How now, Horatio! You tremble and look pale. Is not this something more than fantasy? What think you on’t?

Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.

Is it not like the King?

As thou art to thyself: Such was the very armour he had on When he th’ambitious Norway combated; So frown’d he once, when in an angry parle He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. ’Tis strange.

Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

In what particular thought to work I know not; But in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such daily cast of brazen cannon And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week. What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day: Who is’t that can inform me?

That can I; At least, the whisper goes so. Our last King, Whose image even but now appear’d to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride, Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet, For so this side of our known world esteem’d him, Did slay this Fortinbras; who by a seal’d compact, Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands Which he stood seiz’d of, to the conqueror; Against the which, a moiety competent Was gaged by our King; which had return’d To the inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher; as by the same cov’nant And carriage of the article design’d, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle, hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there, Shark’d up a list of lawless resolutes, For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in’t; which is no other, As it doth well appear unto our state, But to recover of us by strong hand And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost. And this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head Of this post-haste and rummage in the land.

I think it be no other but e’en so: Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch so like the King That was and is the question of these wars.

A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the moist star, Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of fierce events, As harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climatures and countrymen.

Re-enter Ghost.

But, soft, behold! Lo, where it comes again! I’ll cross it, though it blast me. Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, Speak to me. If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid, O speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, Speak of it. Stay, and speak!

[_The cock crows._]

Stop it, Marcellus!

Shall I strike at it with my partisan?

Do, if it will not stand.

’Tis here!

’Tis here!

[_Exit Ghost._]

’Tis gone! We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence, For it is as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockery.

It was about to speak, when the cock crew.

And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, Th’extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine. And of the truth herein This present object made probation.

It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm; So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.

So have I heard, and do in part believe it. But look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill. Break we our watch up, and by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen tonight Unto young Hamlet; for upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty?

Let’s do’t, I pray, and I this morning know Where we shall find him most conveniently.

ACT I, SCENE II. Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle.

Enter Claudius King of Denmark, Gertrude the Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltemand, Cornelius, Lords and Attendant.

Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him, Together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, Th’imperial jointress to this warlike state, Have we, as ’twere with a defeated joy, With one auspicious and one dropping eye, With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole, Taken to wife; nor have we herein barr’d Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair along. For all, our thanks. Now follows, that you know young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, Colleagued with this dream of his advantage, He hath not fail’d to pester us with message, Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, To our most valiant brother. So much for him. Now for ourself and for this time of meeting: Thus much the business is: we have here writ To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras, Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears Of this his nephew’s purpose, to suppress His further gait herein; in that the levies, The lists, and full proportions are all made Out of his subject: and we here dispatch You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand, For bearers of this greeting to old Norway, Giving to you no further personal power To business with the King, more than the scope Of these dilated articles allow. Farewell; and let your haste commend your duty.

CORNELIUS and VOLTEMAND. In that, and all things, will we show our duty.

We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell.

[_Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius._]

And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you? You told us of some suit. What is’t, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes?

Dread my lord, Your leave and favour to return to France, From whence though willingly I came to Denmark To show my duty in your coronation; Yet now I must confess, that duty done, My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France, And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.

Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius?

He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laboursome petition; and at last Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent. I do beseech you give him leave to go.

Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will! But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son—

[_Aside._] A little more than kin, and less than kind.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?

Not so, my lord, I am too much i’ the sun.

Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust. Thou know’st ’tis common, all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

Ay, madam, it is common.

If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee?

Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not seems. ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected haviour of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, That can denote me truly. These indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

’Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father; But you must know, your father lost a father, That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound In filial obligation, for some term To do obsequious sorrow. But to persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness. ’Tis unmanly grief, It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschool’d; For what we know must be, and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie, ’tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd, whose common theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till he that died today, ‘This must be so.’ We pray you throw to earth This unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father; for let the world take note You are the most immediate to our throne, And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our desire: And we beseech you bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.

Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet. I pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.

I shall in all my best obey you, madam.

Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply. Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come; This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, No jocund health that Denmark drinks today But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, And the King’s rouse the heaven shall bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

[_Exeunt all but Hamlet._]

O that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ’gainst self-slaughter. O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t! Oh fie! ’tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead—nay, not so much, not two: So excellent a king; that was to this Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on; and yet, within a month— Let me not think on’t—Frailty, thy name is woman! A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father’s body Like Niobe, all tears.—Why she, even she— O God! A beast that wants discourse of reason Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle, My father’s brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules. Within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good. But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Enter Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo.

Hail to your lordship!

I am glad to see you well: Horatio, or I do forget myself.

The same, my lord, And your poor servant ever.

Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?— Marcellus?

My good lord.

I am very glad to see you.—Good even, sir.— But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?

A truant disposition, good my lord.

I would not hear your enemy say so; Nor shall you do my ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report Against yourself. I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.

My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral.

I prithee do not mock me, fellow-student. I think it was to see my mother’s wedding.

Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio. My father,—methinks I see my father.

Where, my lord?

In my mind’s eye, Horatio.

I saw him once; he was a goodly king.

He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.

My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.

Saw? Who?

My lord, the King your father.

The King my father!

Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear, till I may deliver Upon the witness of these gentlemen This marvel to you.

For God’s love let me hear.

Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Barnardo, on their watch In the dead waste and middle of the night, Been thus encounter’d. A figure like your father, Armed at point exactly, cap-à-pie, Appears before them, and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d By their oppress’d and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon’s length; whilst they, distill’d Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did, And I with them the third night kept the watch, Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes. I knew your father; These hands are not more like.

But where was this?

My lord, upon the platform where we watch.

Did you not speak to it?

My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up it head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak. But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish’d from our sight.

’Tis very strange.

As I do live, my honour’d lord, ’tis true; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.

Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch tonight?

MARCELLUS and BARNARDO. We do, my lord.

Arm’d, say you?

Both. Arm’d, my lord.

From top to toe?

My lord, from head to foot.

Then saw you not his face?

O yes, my lord, he wore his beaver up.

What, look’d he frowningly?

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

Pale, or red?

Nay, very pale.

And fix’d his eyes upon you?

Most constantly.

I would I had been there.

It would have much amaz’d you.

Very like, very like. Stay’d it long?

While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.

MARCELLUS and BARNARDO. Longer, longer.

Not when I saw’t.

His beard was grizzled, no?

It was, as I have seen it in his life, A sable silver’d.

I will watch tonight; Perchance ’twill walk again.

I warrant you it will.

If it assume my noble father’s person, I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap tonight, Give it an understanding, but no tongue. I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well. Upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve, I’ll visit you.

Our duty to your honour.

Your loves, as mine to you: farewell.

[_Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo._]

My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

ACT I, SCENE III. A room in Polonius’s house.

Enter Laertes and Ophelia.

My necessaries are embark’d. Farewell. And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you.

Do you doubt that?

For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood; A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

No more but so?

Think it no more. For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, Carve for himself; for on his choice depends The sanctity and health of this whole state; And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmaster’d importunity. Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister; And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself ’scapes not calumnious strokes: The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. Be wary then, best safety lies in fear. Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

I shall th’effect of this good lesson keep As watchman to my heart. But good my brother, Do not as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst like a puff’d and reckless libertine Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede.

O, fear me not. I stay too long. But here my father comes.

Enter Polonius.

A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame. The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay’d for. There, my blessing with you.

[_Laying his hand on Laertes’s head._]

And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear’t that th’opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgement. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend; And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing season this in thee.

Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

The time invites you; go, your servants tend.

Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have said to you.

’Tis in my memory lock’d, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.

What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you?

So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.

Marry, well bethought: ’Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you; and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous. If it be so,—as so ’tis put on me, And that in way of caution,—I must tell you You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behoves my daughter and your honour. What is between you? Give me up the truth.

He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me.

Affection! Pooh! You speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?

I do not know, my lord, what I should think.

Marry, I’ll teach you; think yourself a baby; That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly; Or,—not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Running it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool.

My lord, he hath importun’d me with love In honourable fashion.

Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.

And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both, Even in their promise, as it is a-making, You must not take for fire. From this time Be something scanter of your maiden presence; Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him that he is young; And with a larger tether may he walk Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers, Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, The better to beguile. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth Have you so slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to’t, I charge you; come your ways.

I shall obey, my lord.

ACT I, SCENE IV. The platform.

Enter Hamlet, Horatio and Marcellus.

The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.

It is a nipping and an eager air.

What hour now?

I think it lacks of twelve.

No, it is struck.

Indeed? I heard it not. It then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.

[_A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within._]

What does this mean, my lord?

The King doth wake tonight and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the swaggering upspring reels; And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.

Is it a custom?

Ay marry is’t; And to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom More honour’d in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations: They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though perform’d at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. So oft it chances in particular men That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth, wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin, By their o’ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o’erleavens The form of plausive manners;—that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being Nature’s livery or Fortune’s star,— His virtues else,—be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo, Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault. The dram of evil Doth all the noble substance of a doubt To his own scandal.

Look, my lord, it comes!

Enter Ghost.

Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee. I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn’d, Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again! What may this mean, That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?

[_Ghost beckons Hamlet._]

It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.

Look with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed ground. But do not go with it.

No, by no means.

It will not speak; then will I follow it.

Do not, my lord.

Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin’s fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again. I’ll follow it.

What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, And draw you into madness? Think of it. The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fathoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath.

It waves me still. Go on, I’ll follow thee.

You shall not go, my lord.

Hold off your hands.

Be rul’d; you shall not go.

My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.

[_Ghost beckons._]

Still am I call’d. Unhand me, gentlemen.

[_Breaking free from them._]

By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me. I say, away!—Go on, I’ll follow thee.

[_Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet._]

He waxes desperate with imagination.

Let’s follow; ’tis not fit thus to obey him.

Have after. To what issue will this come?

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Heaven will direct it.

Nay, let’s follow him.

ACT I, SCENE V. A more remote part of the Castle.

Enter Ghost and Hamlet.

Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak, I’ll go no further.

Mark me.

I will.

My hour is almost come, When I to sulph’rous and tormenting flames Must render up myself.

Alas, poor ghost!

Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold.

Speak, I am bound to hear.

So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.

I am thy father’s spirit, Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confin’d to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever thy dear father love—

O God!

Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.

Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift As meditation or the thoughts of love May sweep to my revenge.

I find thee apt; And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear. ’Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forged process of my death Rankly abus’d; but know, thou noble youth, The serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown.

O my prophetic soul! Mine uncle!

Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,— O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen. O Hamlet, what a falling off was there, From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage; and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine. But virtue, as it never will be mov’d, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven; So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. But soft! methinks I scent the morning air; Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distilment, whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as quicksilver it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body; And with a sudden vigour it doth posset And curd, like eager droppings into milk, The thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine; And a most instant tetter bark’d about, Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust All my smooth body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand, Of life, of crown, of queen at once dispatch’d: Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhous’led, disappointed, unanel’d; No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head. O horrible! O horrible! most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for luxury and damned incest. But howsoever thou pursu’st this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once! The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire. Adieu, adieu, adieu. Remember me.

O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, my heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix’d with baser matter. Yes, by heaven! O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling damned villain! My tables. Meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain! At least I am sure it may be so in Denmark.

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is ‘Adieu, adieu, remember me.’ I have sworn’t.

HORATIO and MARCELLUS. [_Within._] My lord, my lord.

[_Within._] Lord Hamlet.

[_Within._] Heaven secure him.

So be it!

[_Within._] Illo, ho, ho, my lord!

Hillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come.

Enter Horatio and Marcellus.

How is’t, my noble lord?

What news, my lord?

O, wonderful!

Good my lord, tell it.

No, you’ll reveal it.

Not I, my lord, by heaven.

Nor I, my lord.

How say you then, would heart of man once think it?— But you’ll be secret?

HORATIO and MARCELLUS. Ay, by heaven, my lord.

There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he’s an arrant knave.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this.

Why, right; you are i’ the right; And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part: You, as your business and desire shall point you,— For every man hath business and desire, Such as it is;—and for my own poor part, Look you, I’ll go pray.

These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.

I’m sorry they offend you, heartily; Yes faith, heartily.

There’s no offence, my lord.

Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, And much offence too. Touching this vision here, It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you. For your desire to know what is between us, O’ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request.

What is’t, my lord? We will.

Never make known what you have seen tonight.

HORATIO and MARCELLUS. My lord, we will not.

Nay, but swear’t.

In faith, my lord, not I.

Nor I, my lord, in faith.

Upon my sword.

We have sworn, my lord, already.

Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.

[_Cries under the stage._] Swear.

Ha, ha boy, sayst thou so? Art thou there, truepenny? Come on, you hear this fellow in the cellarage. Consent to swear.

Propose the oath, my lord.

Never to speak of this that you have seen. Swear by my sword.

[_Beneath._] Swear.

_Hic et ubique?_ Then we’ll shift our ground. Come hither, gentlemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword. Never to speak of this that you have heard. Swear by my sword.

[_Beneath._] Swear.

Well said, old mole! Canst work i’ th’earth so fast? A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends.

O day and night, but this is wondrous strange.

And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come, Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself,— As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on— That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumber’d thus, or this head-shake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As ‘Well, we know’, or ‘We could and if we would’, Or ‘If we list to speak’; or ‘There be and if they might’, Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me:—this not to do. So grace and mercy at your most need help you, Swear.

[_Beneath._] Swear.

Rest, rest, perturbed spirit. So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you; And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do t’express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together, And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint. O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right. Nay, come, let’s go together.

ACT II

SCENE I. A room in Polonius’s house.

Enter Polonius and Reynaldo.

Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.

I will, my lord.

You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo, Before you visit him, to make inquiry Of his behaviour.

My lord, I did intend it.

Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, sir, Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris; And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company, at what expense; and finding By this encompassment and drift of question, That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it. Take you as ’twere some distant knowledge of him, As thus, ‘I know his father and his friends, And in part him’—do you mark this, Reynaldo?

Ay, very well, my lord.

‘And in part him, but,’ you may say, ‘not well; But if’t be he I mean, he’s very wild; Addicted so and so;’ and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonour him; take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty.

As gaming, my lord?

Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, Quarrelling, drabbing. You may go so far.

My lord, that would dishonour him.

Faith no, as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency; That’s not my meaning: but breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty; The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault.

But my good lord—

Wherefore should you do this?

Ay, my lord, I would know that.

Marry, sir, here’s my drift, And I believe it is a fetch of warrant. You laying these slight sullies on my son, As ’twere a thing a little soil’d i’ th’ working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d He closes with you in this consequence; ‘Good sir,’ or so; or ‘friend,’ or ‘gentleman’— According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country.

Very good, my lord.

And then, sir, does he this,— He does—What was I about to say? By the mass, I was about to say something. Where did I leave?

At ‘closes in the consequence.’ At ‘friend or so,’ and ‘gentleman.’

At ‘closes in the consequence’ ay, marry! He closes with you thus: ‘I know the gentleman, I saw him yesterday, or t’other day, Or then, or then, with such and such; and, as you say, There was he gaming, there o’ertook in’s rouse, There falling out at tennis’: or perchance, ‘I saw him enter such a house of sale’— _Videlicet_, a brothel, or so forth. See you now; Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses, and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out. So by my former lecture and advice Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?

My lord, I have.

God b’ wi’ you, fare you well.

Good my lord.

Observe his inclination in yourself.

I shall, my lord.

And let him ply his music.

Well, my lord.

[_Exit Reynaldo._]

Enter Ophelia.

How now, Ophelia, what’s the matter?

Alas, my lord, I have been so affrighted.

With what, in the name of God?

My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d, No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d, Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors, he comes before me.

Mad for thy love?

My lord, I do not know, but truly I do fear it.

What said he?

He took me by the wrist and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arm; And with his other hand thus o’er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so, At last,—a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being. That done, he lets me go, And with his head over his shoulder turn’d He seem’d to find his way without his eyes, For out o’ doors he went without their help, And to the last bended their light on me.

Come, go with me. I will go seek the King. This is the very ecstasy of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself, And leads the will to desperate undertakings, As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry,— What, have you given him any hard words of late?

No, my good lord; but as you did command, I did repel his letters and denied His access to me.

That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgement I had not quoted him. I fear’d he did but trifle, And meant to wreck thee. But beshrew my jealousy! It seems it is as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the King. This must be known, which, being kept close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love.

ACT II, SCENE II. A room in the Castle.

Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and Attendants.

Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet’s transformation; so I call it, Since nor th’exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him So much from th’understanding of himself, I cannot dream of. I entreat you both That, being of so young days brought up with him, And since so neighbour’d to his youth and humour, That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court Some little time, so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures and to gather, So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught to us unknown afflicts him thus That, open’d, lies within our remedy.

Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of you, And sure I am, two men there are not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much gentry and good will As to expend your time with us awhile, For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king’s remembrance.

Both your majesties Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty.

We both obey, And here give up ourselves, in the full bent, To lay our service freely at your feet To be commanded.

Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.

Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz. And I beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son. Go, some of you, And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.

Heavens make our presence and our practices Pleasant and helpful to him.

Ay, amen.

[_Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and some Attendants._]

Enter Polonius.

Th’ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully return’d.

Thou still hast been the father of good news.

Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege, I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious King: And I do think,—or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As it hath us’d to do—that I have found The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.

O speak of that, that do I long to hear.

Give first admittance to th’ambassadors; My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.

Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in.

[_Exit Polonius._]

He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath found The head and source of all your son’s distemper.

I doubt it is no other but the main, His father’s death and our o’erhasty marriage.

Well, we shall sift him.

Enter Polonius with Voltemand and Cornelius.

Welcome, my good friends! Say, Voltemand, what from our brother Norway?

Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our first, he sent out to suppress His nephew’s levies, which to him appear’d To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack; But better look’d into, he truly found It was against your Highness; whereat griev’d, That so his sickness, age, and impotence Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys, Receives rebuke from Norway; and in fine, Makes vow before his uncle never more To give th’assay of arms against your Majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee, And his commission to employ those soldiers So levied as before, against the Polack: With an entreaty, herein further shown, [_Gives a paper._] That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down.

It likes us well; And at our more consider’d time we’ll read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour. Go to your rest, at night we’ll feast together:. Most welcome home.

[_Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius._]

This business is well ended. My liege and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it; for to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go.

More matter, with less art.

Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity; And pity ’tis ’tis true. A foolish figure, But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then. And now remains That we find out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause. Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend, I have a daughter—have whilst she is mine— Who in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise. [_Reads._] _To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia_— That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘beautified’ is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. [_Reads._] _these; in her excellent white bosom, these, &c._

Came this from Hamlet to her?

Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful. [_Reads._] _Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love. O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers. I have not art to reckon my groans. But that I love thee best, O most best, believe it. Adieu. Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, HAMLET._ This in obedience hath my daughter show’d me; And more above, hath his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means, and place, All given to mine ear.

But how hath she receiv’d his love?

What do you think of me?

As of a man faithful and honourable.

I would fain prove so. But what might you think, When I had seen this hot love on the wing, As I perceiv’d it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me, what might you, Or my dear Majesty your queen here, think, If I had play’d the desk or table-book, Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, Or look’d upon this love with idle sight, What might you think? No, I went round to work, And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: ‘Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star. This must not be.’ And then I precepts gave her, That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done, she took the fruits of my advice, And he, repulsed,—a short tale to make— Fell into a sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness, Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now he raves, And all we wail for.

Do you think ’tis this?

It may be, very likely.

Hath there been such a time, I’d fain know that, That I have positively said ‘’Tis so,’ When it prov’d otherwise?

Not that I know.

Take this from this, if this be otherwise. [_Points to his head and shoulder._] If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre.

How may we try it further?

You know sometimes he walks four hours together Here in the lobby.

So he does indeed.

At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him. Be you and I behind an arras then, Mark the encounter. If he love her not, And be not from his reason fall’n thereon, Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm and carters.

We will try it.

Enter Hamlet, reading.

But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

Away, I do beseech you, both away I’ll board him presently. O, give me leave.

[_Exeunt King, Queen and Attendants._]

How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Well, God-a-mercy.

Do you know me, my lord?

Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

Not I, my lord.

Then I would you were so honest a man.

Honest, my lord?

Ay sir, to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

That’s very true, my lord.

For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion,— Have you a daughter?

I have, my lord.

Let her not walk i’ th’ sun. Conception is a blessing, but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to’t.

How say you by that? [_Aside._] Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone. And truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?

Words, words, words.

What is the matter, my lord?

Between who?

I mean the matter that you read, my lord.

Slanders, sir. For the satirical slave says here that old men have grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams. All which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down. For you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab you could go backward.

[_Aside._] Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.— Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

Into my grave?

Indeed, that is out o’ the air. [_Aside._] How pregnant sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter. My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.

You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal, except my life, except my life, except my life.

Fare you well, my lord.

These tedious old fools.

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is.

[_To Polonius._] God save you, sir.

[_Exit Polonius._]

My honoured lord!

My most dear lord!

My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz. Good lads, how do ye both?

As the indifferent children of the earth.

Happy in that we are not over-happy; On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.

Nor the soles of her shoe?

Neither, my lord.

Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours?

Faith, her privates we.

In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet. What’s the news?

None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest.

Then is doomsday near. But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular. What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?

Prison, my lord?

Denmark’s a prison.

Then is the world one.

A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o’ th’ worst.

We think not so, my lord.

Why, then ’tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.

Why, then your ambition makes it one; ’tis too narrow for your mind.

O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.

Which dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow.

Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretch’d heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to th’ court? For, by my fay, I cannot reason.

ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. We’ll wait upon you.

No such matter. I will not sort you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

To visit you, my lord, no other occasion.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you. And sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me. Come, come; nay, speak.

What should we say, my lord?

Why, anything. But to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to colour. I know the good King and Queen have sent for you.

To what end, my lord?

That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no.

[_To Guildenstern._] What say you?

[_Aside._] Nay, then I have an eye of you. If you love me, hold not off.

My lord, we were sent for.

I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and Queen moult no feather. I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable; in action how like an angel, in apprehension, how like a god: the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.

Why did you laugh then, when I said ‘Man delights not me’?

To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what Lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you. We coted them on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you service.

He that plays the king shall be welcome,—his Majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis, the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o’ th’ sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they?

Even those you were wont to take such delight in—the tragedians of the city.

How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.

I think their inhibition comes by the means of the late innovation.

Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?

No, indeed, they are not.

How comes it? Do they grow rusty?

Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace; but there is, sir, an aerie of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for’t. These are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages—so they call them—that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.

What, are they children? Who maintains ’em? How are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? Will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players—as it is most like, if their means are no better—their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own succession?

Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy. There was for a while, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.

Is’t possible?

O, there has been much throwing about of brains.

Do the boys carry it away?

Ay, that they do, my lord. Hercules and his load too.

It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out.

[_Flourish of trumpets within._]

There are the players.

Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come. The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players, which I tell you must show fairly outward, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.

In what, my dear lord?

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Enter Polonius.

Well be with you, gentlemen.

Hark you, Guildenstern, and you too, at each ear a hearer. That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts.

Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.

I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.—You say right, sir: for a Monday morning ’twas so indeed.

My lord, I have news to tell you.

My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome—

The actors are come hither, my lord.

Buzz, buzz.

Upon my honour.

Then came each actor on his ass—

The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light, for the law of writ and the liberty. These are the only men.

O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!

What treasure had he, my lord?

Why— ’One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well.’

[_Aside._] Still on my daughter.

Am I not i’ th’ right, old Jephthah?

If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.

Nay, that follows not.

What follows then, my lord?

Why, As by lot, God wot, and then, you know, It came to pass, as most like it was. The first row of the pious chanson will show you more. For look where my abridgement comes.

Enter four or five Players.

You are welcome, masters, welcome all. I am glad to see thee well. Welcome, good friends. O, my old friend! Thy face is valanc’d since I saw thee last. Com’st thou to beard me in Denmark? What, my young lady and mistress! By’r lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring. Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, fly at anything we see. We’ll have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your quality. Come, a passionate speech.

FIRST PLAYER.

What speech, my lord?

I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted, or if it was, not above once, for the play, I remember, pleased not the million, ’twas caviare to the general. But it was—as I received it, and others, whose judgements in such matters cried in the top of mine—an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indite the author of affectation, but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in it, I chiefly loved. ’Twas Aeneas’ tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line, let me see, let me see: _The rugged Pyrrhus, like th’ Hyrcanian beast,—_ It is not so: it begins with Pyrrhus— _The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse, Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot Now is he total gules, horridly trick’d With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and a damned light To their vile murders. Roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o’ersized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks._ So, proceed you.

’Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion.

FIRST PLAYER.

_Anon he finds him, Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command. Unequal match’d, Pyrrhus at Priam drives, in rage strikes wide; But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword Th’unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear. For lo, his sword, Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ th’air to stick. So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood, And like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. But as we often see against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region; so after Pyrrhus’ pause, Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work, And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall On Mars’s armour, forg’d for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you gods, In general synod, take away her power; Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven, As low as to the fiends._

This is too long.

It shall to the barber’s, with your beard.—Prithee say on. He’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say on; come to Hecuba.

FIRST PLAYER.

_But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen,—_

‘The mobled queen’?

That’s good! ‘Mobled queen’ is good.

FIRST PLAYER.

_Run barefoot up and down, threat’ning the flames With bisson rheum. A clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, About her lank and all o’erteemed loins, A blanket, in th’alarm of fear caught up— Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d, ’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounc’d. But if the gods themselves did see her then, When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, The instant burst of clamour that she made,— Unless things mortal move them not at all,— Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven, And passion in the gods._

Look, where he has not turn’d his colour, and has tears in’s eyes. Pray you, no more.

’Tis well. I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.—Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used; for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

My lord, I will use them according to their desert.

God’s bodikin, man, much better. Use every man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity. The less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.

Come, sirs.

Follow him, friends. We’ll hear a play tomorrow.

[_Exeunt Polonius with all the Players but the First._]

Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play _The Murder of Gonzago_?

FIRST PLAYER.

Ay, my lord.

We’ll ha’t tomorrow night. You could for a need study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines, which I would set down and insert in’t, could you not?

FIRST PLAYER.

Ay, my lord.

Very well. Follow that lord, and look you mock him not.

[_Exit First Player._]

[_To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern_] My good friends, I’ll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore.

Good my lord.

[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]

Ay, so, God b’ wi’ ye. Now I am alone. O what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wan’d; Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba? What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty, and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed, The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing. No, not for a king Upon whose property and most dear life A damn’d defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain, breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose, gives me the lie i’ th’ throat As deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha! ’Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! Oh vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words And fall a-cursing like a very drab, A scullion! Fie upon’t! Foh! About, my brain! I have heard That guilty creatures sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene, Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim’d their malefactions. For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ. I’ll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle. I’ll observe his looks; I’ll tent him to the quick. If he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be the devil, and the devil hath power T’assume a pleasing shape, yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me to damn me. I’ll have grounds More relative than this. The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.

ACT III

SCENE I. A room in the Castle.

Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

And can you by no drift of circumstance Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?

He does confess he feels himself distracted, But from what cause he will by no means speak.

Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state.

Did he receive you well?

Most like a gentleman.

But with much forcing of his disposition.

Niggard of question, but of our demands, Most free in his reply.

Did you assay him to any pastime?

Madam, it so fell out that certain players We o’er-raught on the way. Of these we told him, And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it. They are about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him.

’Tis most true; And he beseech’d me to entreat your Majesties To hear and see the matter.

With all my heart; and it doth much content me To hear him so inclin’d. Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, And drive his purpose on to these delights.

We shall, my lord.

[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]

Sweet Gertrude, leave us too, For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, That he, as ’twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia. Her father and myself, lawful espials, Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge, And gather by him, as he is behav’d, If’t be th’affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for.

I shall obey you. And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honours.

Madam, I wish it may.

[_Exit Queen._]

Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves.—[_To Ophelia._] Read on this book, That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this, ’Tis too much prov’d, that with devotion’s visage And pious action we do sugar o’er The devil himself.

[_Aside._] O ’tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word. O heavy burden!

I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, my lord.

[_Exeunt King and Polonius._]

Enter Hamlet.

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 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 dispriz’d 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 these 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 Be all my sins remember’d.

Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day?

I humbly thank you; well, well, well.

My lord, I have remembrances of yours That I have longed long to re-deliver. I pray you, now receive them.

No, not I. I never gave you aught.

My honour’d lord, you know right well you did, And with them words of so sweet breath compos’d As made the things more rich; their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my lord.

Ha, ha! Are you honest?

My lord?

Are you fair?

What means your lordship?

That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?

Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.

Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.

You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.

I was the more deceived.

Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves all, believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father?

At home, my lord.

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.

O help him, you sweet heavens!

If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell.

O heavenly powers, restore him!

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I’ll no more on’t, it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages. Those that are married already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go.

O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword, Th’expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, Th’observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched, That suck’d the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh, That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy. O woe is me, T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see.

Enter King and Polonius.

Love? His affections do not that way tend, Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul O’er which his melancholy sits on brood, And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger, which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it down: he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute: Haply the seas and countries different, With variable objects, shall expel This something settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on’t?

It shall do well. But yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung from neglected love. How now, Ophelia? You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said, We heard it all. My lord, do as you please, But if you hold it fit, after the play, Let his queen mother all alone entreat him To show his grief, let her be round with him, And I’ll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she find him not, To England send him; or confine him where Your wisdom best shall think.

It shall be so. Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go.

ACT III, SCENE II. A hall in the Castle.

Enter Hamlet and certain Players.

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant. It out-Herods Herod. Pray you avoid it.

FIRST PLAYER.

I warrant your honour.

Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature; for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as ’twere the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play—and heard others praise, and that highly—not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

FIRST PLAYER.

I hope we have reform’d that indifferently with us, sir.

O reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them. For there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That’s villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.

[_Exeunt Players._]

Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

How now, my lord? Will the King hear this piece of work?

And the Queen too, and that presently.

Bid the players make haste.

[_Exit Polonius._]

Will you two help to hasten them?

ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. We will, my lord.

[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]

What ho, Horatio!

Enter Horatio.

Here, sweet lord, at your service.

Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man As e’er my conversation cop’d withal.

O my dear lord.

Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal’d thee for herself. For thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks. And blessed are those Whose blood and judgement are so well co-mingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much of this. There is a play tonight before the King. One scene of it comes near the circumstance Which I have told thee, of my father’s death. I prithee, when thou see’st that act a-foot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle. If his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen; And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note; For I mine eyes will rivet to his face; And after we will both our judgements join In censure of his seeming.

Well, my lord. If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And ’scape detecting, I will pay the theft.

They are coming to the play. I must be idle. Get you a place.

Danish march. A flourish. Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and others.

How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Excellent, i’ faith; of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.

I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.

No, nor mine now. [_To Polonius._] My lord, you play’d once i’ th’university, you say?

That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor.

What did you enact?

I did enact Julius Caesar. I was kill’d i’ th’ Capitol. Brutus killed me.

It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players ready?

Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience.

Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.

No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive.

[_To the King._] O ho! do you mark that?

Lady, shall I lie in your lap?

[_Lying down at Ophelia’s feet._]

No, my lord.

I mean, my head upon your lap?

Ay, my lord.

Do you think I meant country matters?

I think nothing, my lord.

That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.

What is, my lord?

You are merry, my lord.

Who, I?

Ay, my lord.

O God, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within’s two hours.

Nay, ’tis twice two months, my lord.

So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year. But by’r lady, he must build churches then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is ‘For, O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!’

Trumpets sound. The dumb show enters.

_Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck. Lays him down upon a bank of flowers. She, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, pours poison in the King’s ears, and exits. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner with some three or four Mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner woos the Queen with gifts. She seems loth and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love._

What means this, my lord?

Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.

Belike this show imports the argument of the play.

Enter Prologue.

We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all.

Will they tell us what this show meant?

Ay, or any show that you’ll show him. Be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.

You are naught, you are naught: I’ll mark the play.

_For us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently._

Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?

’Tis brief, my lord.

As woman’s love.

Enter a King and a Queen.

PLAYER KING.

Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground, And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands Unite commutual in most sacred bands.

PLAYER QUEEN.

So many journeys may the sun and moon Make us again count o’er ere love be done. But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state, That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must: For women’s fear and love holds quantity, In neither aught, or in extremity. Now what my love is, proof hath made you know, And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

PLAYER KING.

Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too: My operant powers their functions leave to do: And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honour’d, belov’d, and haply one as kind For husband shalt thou—

PLAYER QUEEN.

O confound the rest. Such love must needs be treason in my breast. In second husband let me be accurst! None wed the second but who kill’d the first.

[_Aside._] Wormwood, wormwood.

PLAYER QUEEN.

The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. A second time I kill my husband dead, When second husband kisses me in bed.

PLAYER KING.

I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we do determine, oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity: Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree, But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ’tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy. Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. This world is not for aye; nor ’tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For ’tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favourite flies, The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies; And hitherto doth love on fortune tend: For who not needs shall never lack a friend, And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy. But orderly to end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second husband wed, But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.

PLAYER QUEEN.

Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light, Sport and repose lock from me day and night, To desperation turn my trust and hope, An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope, Each opposite that blanks the face of joy, Meet what I would have well, and it destroy! Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife.

[_To Ophelia._] If she should break it now.

PLAYER KING.

’Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile. My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. [_Sleeps._]

PLAYER QUEEN.

Sleep rock thy brain, And never come mischance between us twain.

Madam, how like you this play?

The lady protests too much, methinks.

O, but she’ll keep her word.

Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t?

No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ th’ world.

What do you call the play?

_The Mousetrap._ Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna. Gonzago is the Duke’s name, his wife Baptista: you shall see anon; ’tis a knavish piece of work: but what o’ that? Your majesty, and we that have free souls, it touches us not. Let the gall’d jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

Enter Lucianus.

This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King.

You are a good chorus, my lord.

I could interpret between you and your love, if I could see the puppets dallying.

You are keen, my lord, you are keen.

It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.

Still better, and worse.

So you mistake your husbands.—Begin, murderer. Pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.

Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing, Confederate season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property On wholesome life usurp immediately.

[_Pours the poison into the sleeper’s ears._]

He poisons him i’ th’garden for’s estate. His name’s Gonzago. The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian. You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.

The King rises.

What, frighted with false fire?

How fares my lord?

Give o’er the play.

Give me some light. Away.

All. Lights, lights, lights.

[_Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio._]

Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep, So runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me; with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?

Half a share.

A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of Jove himself, and now reigns here A very, very—pajock.

You might have rhymed.

O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound. Didst perceive?

Very well, my lord.

Upon the talk of the poisoning?

I did very well note him.

Ah, ha! Come, some music. Come, the recorders. For if the king like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it not, perdie. Come, some music.

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.

Sir, a whole history.

The King, sir—

Ay, sir, what of him?

Is in his retirement, marvellous distempered.

With drink, sir?

No, my lord; rather with choler.

Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor, for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler.

Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.

I am tame, sir, pronounce.

The Queen your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you.

You are welcome.

Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment; if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business.

Sir, I cannot.

What, my lord?

Make you a wholesome answer. My wit’s diseased. But, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more, but to the matter. My mother, you say,—

Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration.

O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s admiration?

She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed.

We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?

My lord, you once did love me.

And so I do still, by these pickers and stealers.

Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend.

Sir, I lack advancement.

How can that be, when you have the voice of the King himself for your succession in Denmark?

Ay, sir, but while the grass grows—the proverb is something musty.

Re-enter the Players with recorders.

O, the recorders. Let me see one.—To withdraw with you, why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.

I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?

My lord, I cannot.

I pray you.

Believe me, I cannot.

I do beseech you.

I know no touch of it, my lord.

’Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.

But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony. I have not the skill.

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Enter Polonius.

God bless you, sir.

My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently.

Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel?

By the mass, and ’tis like a camel indeed.

Methinks it is like a weasel.

It is backed like a weasel.

Or like a whale.

Very like a whale.

Then will I come to my mother by and by.—They fool me to the top of my bent.—I will come by and by.

I will say so.

By and by is easily said. Leave me, friends.

[_Exeunt all but Hamlet._]

’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day Would quake to look on. Soft now, to my mother. O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural. I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites. How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent.

ACT III, SCENE III. A room in the Castle.

Enter King, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you, I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies.

We will ourselves provide. Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your Majesty.

The single and peculiar life is bound With all the strength and armour of the mind, To keep itself from ’noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw What’s near it with it. It is a massy wheel Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boist’rous ruin. Never alone Did the King sigh, but with a general groan.

Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed.

ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. We will haste us.

[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]

Enter Polonius.

My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet. Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process. I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home, And as you said, and wisely was it said, ’Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear The speech of vantage. Fare you well, my liege, I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know.

Thanks, dear my lord.

[_Exit Polonius._]

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— A brother’s murder! Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up. My fault is past. But O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder! That cannot be; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder,— My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon’d and retain th’offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law. But ’tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell’d Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance can. What can it not? Yet what can it, when one cannot repent? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that struggling to be free, Art more engag’d! Help, angels! Make assay: Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All may be well.

[_Retires and kneels._]

Enter Hamlet.

Now might I do it pat, now he is praying. And now I’ll do’t. And so he goes to heaven; And so am I reveng’d. That would be scann’d: A villain kills my father, and for that I, his sole son, do this same villain send To heaven. O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought, ’Tis heavy with him. And am I then reveng’d, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season’d for his passage? No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage, Or in th’incestuous pleasure of his bed, At gaming, swearing; or about some act That has no relish of salvation in’t, Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damn’d and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. This physic but prolongs thy sickly days.

The King rises and advances.

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

ACT III, SCENE IV. Another room in the Castle.

Enter Queen and Polonius.

He will come straight. Look you lay home to him, Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, And that your Grace hath screen’d and stood between Much heat and him. I’ll silence me e’en here. Pray you be round with him.

[_Within._] Mother, mother, mother.

I’ll warrant you, Fear me not. Withdraw, I hear him coming.

[_Polonius goes behind the arras._]

Enter Hamlet.

Now, mother, what’s the matter?

Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

Mother, you have my father much offended.

Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.

Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.

Why, how now, Hamlet?

What’s the matter now?

Have you forgot me?

No, by the rood, not so. You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, And, would it were not so. You are my mother.

Nay, then I’ll set those to you that can speak.

Come, come, and sit you down, you shall not budge. You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.

What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? Help, help, ho!

[_Behind._] What, ho! help, help, help!

How now? A rat? [_Draws._] Dead for a ducat, dead!

[_Makes a pass through the arras._]

[_Behind._] O, I am slain!

[_Falls and dies._]

O me, what hast thou done?

Nay, I know not. Is it the King?

[_Draws forth Polonius._]

O what a rash and bloody deed is this!

A bloody deed. Almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king and marry with his brother.

As kill a king?

Ay, lady, ’twas my word.— [_To Polonius._] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune, Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.— Leave wringing of your hands. Peace, sit you down, And let me wring your heart, for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz’d it so, That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy tongue In noise so rude against me?

Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty, Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there. Makes marriage vows As false as dicers’ oaths. O such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words. Heaven’s face doth glow, Yea this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act.

Ay me, what act, That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?

Look here upon this picture, and on this, The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow, Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill: A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband. Look you now what follows. Here is your husband, like a mildew’d ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? You cannot call it love; for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgement: and what judgement Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have, Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense Is apoplex’d, for madness would not err Nor sense to ecstacy was ne’er so thrall’d But it reserv’d some quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders will.

O Hamlet, speak no more. Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct.

Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty.

O speak to me no more; These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet.

A murderer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord. A vice of kings, A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket!

No more.

A king of shreds and patches!—

Enter Ghost.

Save me and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What would your gracious figure?

Alas, he’s mad.

Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by The important acting of your dread command? O say!

Do not forget. This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But look, amazement on thy mother sits. O step between her and her fighting soul. Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. Speak to her, Hamlet.

How is it with you, lady?

Alas, how is’t with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep, And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements, Start up and stand an end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?

On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares, His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, Would make them capable.—Do not look upon me, Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects. Then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.

To whom do you speak this?

Do you see nothing there?

Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.

Nor did you nothing hear?

No, nothing but ourselves.

Why, look you there! look how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he liv’d! Look where he goes even now out at the portal.

[_Exit Ghost._]

This is the very coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in.

Ecstasy! My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music. It is not madness That I have utter’d. Bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass, but my madness speaks. It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what’s past, avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.

O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.

O throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. Good night. But go not to mine uncle’s bed. Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits evil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence. The next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night, And when you are desirous to be bles’d, I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord [_Pointing to Polonius._] I do repent; but heaven hath pleas’d it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady.

What shall I do?

Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed, Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse, And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. ’Twere good you let him know, For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep And break your own neck down.

Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me.

I must to England, you know that?

Alack, I had forgot. ’Tis so concluded on.

There’s letters seal’d: and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d,— They bear the mandate, they must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For ’tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petard, and ’t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. O, ’tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet. This man shall set me packing. I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room. Mother, good night. Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish prating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you. Good night, mother.

[_Exit Hamlet dragging out Polonius._]

ACT IV

SCENE I. A room in the Castle.

Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

There’s matter in these sighs. These profound heaves You must translate; ’tis fit we understand them. Where is your son?

Bestow this place on us a little while.

[_To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who go out._]

Ah, my good lord, what have I seen tonight!

What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet?

Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit Behind the arras hearing something stir, Whips out his rapier, cries ‘A rat, a rat!’ And in this brainish apprehension kills The unseen good old man.

O heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there. His liberty is full of threats to all; To you yourself, to us, to everyone. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer’d? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt This mad young man. But so much was our love We would not understand what was most fit, But like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone?

To draw apart the body he hath kill’d, O’er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.

O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch But we will ship him hence, and this vile deed We must with all our majesty and skill Both countenance and excuse.—Ho, Guildenstern!

Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

Friends both, go join you with some further aid: Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him. Go seek him out, speak fair, and bring the body Into the chapel. I pray you haste in this.

[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]

Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends, And let them know both what we mean to do And what’s untimely done, so haply slander, Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank, Transports his poison’d shot, may miss our name, And hit the woundless air. O, come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay.

ACT IV, SCENE II. Another room in the Castle.

Enter Hamlet.

Safely stowed.

ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. [_Within._] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!

What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come.

Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?

Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin.

Tell us where ’tis, that we may take it thence, And bear it to the chapel.

Do not believe it.

Believe what?

That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge—what replication should be made by the son of a king?

Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Ay, sir; that soaks up the King’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the King best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

I understand you not, my lord.

I am glad of it. A knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.

My lord, you must tell us where the body is and go with us to the King.

The body is with the King, but the King is not with the body. The King is a thing—

A thing, my lord!

Of nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after.

ACT IV, SCENE III. Another room in the Castle.

Enter King, attended.

I have sent to seek him and to find the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him: He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude, Who like not in their judgement, but their eyes; And where ’tis so, th’offender’s scourge is weigh’d, But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even, This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are reliev’d, Or not at all.

Enter Rosencrantz.

How now? What hath befall’n?

Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord, We cannot get from him.

But where is he?

Without, my lord, guarded, to know your pleasure.

Bring him before us.

Ho, Guildenstern! Bring in my lord.

Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern.

Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?

At supper.

At supper? Where?

Not where he eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service,—two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end.

Alas, alas!

A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.

What dost thou mean by this?

Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar.

Where is Polonius?

In heaven. Send thither to see. If your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ th’other place yourself. But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby.

[_To some Attendants._] Go seek him there.

He will stay till you come.

[_Exeunt Attendants._]

Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,— Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done,—must send thee hence With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare thyself; The bark is ready, and the wind at help, Th’associates tend, and everything is bent For England.

For England?

Ay, Hamlet.

So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.

I see a cherub that sees them. But, come; for England! Farewell, dear mother.

Thy loving father, Hamlet.

My mother. Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England.

Follow him at foot. Tempt him with speed aboard; Delay it not; I’ll have him hence tonight. Away, for everything is seal’d and done That else leans on th’affair. Pray you make haste.

[_Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern._]

And England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,— As my great power thereof may give thee sense, Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red After the Danish sword, and thy free awe Pays homage to us,—thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process, which imports at full, By letters conjuring to that effect, The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done, Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun.

ACT IV, SCENE IV. A plain in Denmark.

Enter Fortinbras and Forces marching.

Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king. Tell him that by his license, Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promis’d march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his Majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye; And let him know so.

I will do’t, my lord.

Go softly on.

[_Exeunt all but the Captain._]

Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern &c.

Good sir, whose powers are these?

They are of Norway, sir.

How purpos’d, sir, I pray you?

Against some part of Poland.

Who commands them, sir?

The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.

Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier?

Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.

Why, then the Polack never will defend it.

Yes, it is already garrison’d.

Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw! This is th’imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. I humbly thank you, sir.

God b’ wi’ you, sir.

Will’t please you go, my lord?

I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.

[_Exeunt all but Hamlet._]

How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge. What is a man If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unus’d. Now whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on th’event,— A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward,—I do not know Why yet I live to say this thing’s to do, Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means To do’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me, Witness this army of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff’d, Makes mouths at the invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth.

ACT IV, SCENE V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle.

Enter Queen, Horatio and a Gentleman.

I will not speak with her.

She is importunate, indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied.

What would she have?

She speaks much of her father; says she hears There’s tricks i’ th’ world, and hems, and beats her heart, Spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts, Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. ’Twere good she were spoken with, for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Let her come in.

[_Exit Gentleman._]

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Enter Ophelia.

Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark?

How now, Ophelia?

[_Sings._] How should I your true love know From another one? By his cockle hat and staff And his sandal shoon.

Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?

Say you? Nay, pray you mark. [_Sings._] He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone, At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone.

Nay, but Ophelia—

Pray you mark. [_Sings._] White his shroud as the mountain snow.

Enter King.

Alas, look here, my lord!

[_Sings._] Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did not go With true-love showers.

How do you, pretty lady?

Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table!

Conceit upon her father.

Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [_Sings._] Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day, All in the morning betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine.

Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes, And dupp’d the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid Never departed more.

Pretty Ophelia!

Indeed la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t. [_Sings._] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! Young men will do’t if they come to’t; By Cock, they are to blame.

Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promis’d me to wed. So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.

How long hath she been thus?

I hope all will be well. We must be patient. But I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him i’ th’ cold ground. My brother shall know of it. And so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.

Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.

[_Exit Horatio._]

O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions. First, her father slain; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick, and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him. Poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgement, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France, Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death, Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death.

[_A noise within._]

Alack, what noise is this?

Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door.

Enter a Gentleman.

What is the matter?

Save yourself, my lord. The ocean, overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O’erbears your offices. The rabble call him lord, And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry ‘Choose we! Laertes shall be king!’ Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, ‘Laertes shall be king, Laertes king.’

How cheerfully on the false trail they cry. O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs.

[_A noise within._]

The doors are broke.

Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following.

Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.

Danes. No, let’s come in.

I pray you, give me leave.

We will, we will.

[_They retire without the door._]

I thank you. Keep the door. O thou vile king, Give me my father.

Calmly, good Laertes.

That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother.

What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?— Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:— Speak, man.

Where is my father?

But not by him.

Let him demand his fill.

How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with. To hell, allegiance! Vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the worlds, I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d Most throughly for my father.

Who shall stay you?

My will, not all the world. And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, They shall go far with little.

Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Winner and loser?

None but his enemies.

Will you know them then?

To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, Repast them with my blood.

Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to your judgement ’pear As day does to your eye.

[_Within._] Let her come in.

How now! What noise is that?

Re-enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed with straws and flowers.

O heat, dry up my brains. Tears seven times salt, Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye. By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens, is’t possible a young maid’s wits Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? Nature is fine in love, and where ’tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves.

[_Sings._] They bore him barefac’d on the bier, Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny And on his grave rain’d many a tear.— Fare you well, my dove!

Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus.

You must sing ‘Down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.’ O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.

This nothing’s more than matter.

There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.

A document in madness, thoughts and remembrance fitted.

There’s fennel for you, and columbines. There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end. [_Sings._] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.

Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself She turns to favour and to prettiness.

[_Sings._] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again.

His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ha’ mercy on his soul.

And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b’ wi’ ye.

Do you see this, O God?

Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral hand They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content.

Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure burial,— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,— Cry to be heard, as ’twere from heaven to earth, That I must call’t in question.

So you shall. And where th’offence is let the great axe fall. I pray you go with me.

ACT IV, SCENE VI. Another room in the Castle.

Enter Horatio and a Servant.

What are they that would speak with me?

Sailors, sir. They say they have letters for you.

Let them come in.

[_Exit Servant._]

I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.

Enter Sailors.

FIRST SAILOR.

God bless you, sir.

Let him bless thee too.

FIRST SAILOR.

He shall, sir, and’t please him. There’s a letter for you, sir. It comes from th’ambassador that was bound for England; if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.

[_Reads._] ‘Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, give these fellows some means to the King. They have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship, so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy. But they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn for them. Let the King have the letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with as much haste as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England: of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.’

Come, I will give you way for these your letters, And do’t the speedier, that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them.

ACT IV, SCENE VII. Another room in the Castle.

Enter King and Laertes.

Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursu’d my life.

It well appears. But tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats, So crimeful and so capital in nature, As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr’d up.

O, for two special reasons, Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive, Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him, Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aim’d them.

And so have I a noble father lost, A sister driven into desperate terms, Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of all the age For her perfections. But my revenge will come.

Break not your sleeps for that. You must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more. I lov’d your father, and we love ourself, And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine—

Enter a Messenger.

How now? What news?

Letters, my lord, from Hamlet. This to your Majesty; this to the Queen.

From Hamlet! Who brought them?

Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not. They were given me by Claudio. He receiv’d them Of him that brought them.

Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us.

[_Exit Messenger._]

[_Reads._] ‘High and mighty, you shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. Tomorrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes. When I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my sudden and more strange return. HAMLET.’

What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?

Know you the hand?

’Tis Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked!’ And in a postscript here he says ‘alone.’ Can you advise me?

I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come, It warms the very sickness in my heart That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, ‘Thus diest thou.’

If it be so, Laertes,— As how should it be so? How otherwise?— Will you be rul’d by me?

Ay, my lord; So you will not o’errule me to a peace.

To thine own peace. If he be now return’d, As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To an exploit, now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall; And for his death no wind shall breathe, But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident.

My lord, I will be rul’d; The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ.

It falls right. You have been talk’d of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality Wherein they say you shine. Your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one, and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege.

What part is that, my lord?

A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too, for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness. Two months since Here was a gentleman of Normandy,— I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, And they can well on horseback, but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t. He grew unto his seat, And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d With the brave beast. So far he topp’d my thought That I in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did.

A Norman was’t?

A Norman.

Upon my life, Lamord.

The very same.

I know him well. He is the brooch indeed And gem of all the nation.

He made confession of you, And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence, And for your rapier most especially, That he cried out ’twould be a sight indeed If one could match you. The scrimers of their nation He swore had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden coming o’er to play with him. Now, out of this,—

What out of this, my lord?

Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart?

Why ask you this?

Not that I think you did not love your father, But that I know love is begun by time, And that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still, For goodness, growing to a pleurisy, Dies in his own too much. That we would do, We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ th’ulcer: Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake To show yourself your father’s son in deed, More than in words?

To cut his throat i’ th’ church.

No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But good Laertes, Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home: We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence, And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you, bring you in fine together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease, Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and in a pass of practice, Requite him for your father.

I will do’t. And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death This is but scratch’d withal. I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that if I gall him slightly, It may be death.

Let’s further think of this, Weigh what convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape. If this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance. ’Twere better not assay’d. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this did blast in proof. Soft, let me see. We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,— I ha’t! When in your motion you are hot and dry, As make your bouts more violent to that end, And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, Our purpose may hold there.

Enter Queen.

How now, sweet Queen?

One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, So fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.

Drown’d! O, where?

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoary leaves in the glassy stream. There with fantastic garlands did she make Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them. There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke, When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide, And mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up, Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued Unto that element. But long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.

Alas, then she is drown’d?

Drown’d, drown’d.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears. But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will. When these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord, I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it.

Let’s follow, Gertrude; How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow.

ACT V

SCENE I. A churchyard.

Enter two Clowns with spades, &c.

FIRST CLOWN.

Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?

SECOND CLOWN.

I tell thee she is, and therefore make her grave straight. The crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.

FIRST CLOWN.

How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?

SECOND CLOWN.

Why, ’tis found so.

FIRST CLOWN.

It must be _se offendendo_, it cannot be else. For here lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches. It is to act, to do, and to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

SECOND CLOWN.

Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—

FIRST CLOWN.

Give me leave. Here lies the water; good. Here stands the man; good. If the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he nill he, he goes,—mark you that. But if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life.

SECOND CLOWN.

But is this law?

FIRST CLOWN.

Ay, marry, is’t, crowner’s quest law.

SECOND CLOWN.

Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.

FIRST CLOWN.

Why, there thou say’st. And the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession.

SECOND CLOWN.

Was he a gentleman?

FIRST CLOWN.

He was the first that ever bore arms.

SECOND CLOWN.

Why, he had none.

FIRST CLOWN.

What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says Adam digg’d. Could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself—

SECOND CLOWN.

Go to.

FIRST CLOWN.

What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

SECOND CLOWN.

The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.

FIRST CLOWN.

I like thy wit well in good faith, the gallows does well. But how does it well? It does well to those that do ill. Now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church; argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.

SECOND CLOWN.

Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?

FIRST CLOWN.

Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

SECOND CLOWN.

Marry, now I can tell.

FIRST CLOWN.

SECOND CLOWN.

Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance.

FIRST CLOWN.

Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and when you are asked this question next, say ‘a grave-maker’. The houses he makes last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of liquor.

[_Exit Second Clown._]

[_Digs and sings._]

In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet; To contract, O, the time for, a, my behove, O methought there was nothing meet.

Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?

Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.

’Tis e’en so; the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense.

FIRST CLOWN.

[_Sings._] But age with his stealing steps Hath claw’d me in his clutch, And hath shipp’d me into the land, As if I had never been such.

[_Throws up a skull._]

That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to th’ ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician which this ass now o’er-offices, one that would circumvent God, might it not?

It might, my lord.

Or of a courtier, which could say ‘Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?’ This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord such-a-one’s horse when he meant to beg it, might it not?

Ay, my lord.

Why, e’en so: and now my Lady Worm’s; chapless, and knocked about the mazard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with ’em? Mine ache to think on’t.

FIRST CLOWN.

[_Sings._] A pickaxe and a spade, a spade, For and a shrouding-sheet; O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

[_Throws up another skull._]

There’s another. Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum. This fellow might be in’s time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries. Is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will scarcely lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?

Not a jot more, my lord.

Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?

Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.

They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir?

FIRST CLOWN.

Mine, sir. [_Sings._] O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet.

I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.

FIRST CLOWN.

You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ’tis not yours. For my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.

Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t and say it is thine. ’Tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.

FIRST CLOWN.

’Tis a quick lie, sir; ’t will away again from me to you.

What man dost thou dig it for?

FIRST CLOWN.

For no man, sir.

What woman then?

FIRST CLOWN.

For none neither.

Who is to be buried in’t?

FIRST CLOWN.

One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.

How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it, the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—How long hast thou been a grave-maker?

FIRST CLOWN.

Of all the days i’ th’ year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.

How long is that since?

FIRST CLOWN.

Cannot you tell that? Every fool can tell that. It was the very day that young Hamlet was born,—he that is mad, and sent into England.

Ay, marry, why was he sent into England?

FIRST CLOWN.

Why, because he was mad; he shall recover his wits there; or if he do not, it’s no great matter there.

FIRST CLOWN.

’Twill not be seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.

How came he mad?

FIRST CLOWN.

Very strangely, they say.

How strangely?

FIRST CLOWN.

Faith, e’en with losing his wits.

Upon what ground?

FIRST CLOWN.

Why, here in Denmark. I have been sexton here, man and boy, thirty years.

How long will a man lie i’ th’earth ere he rot?

FIRST CLOWN.

Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,—as we have many pocky corses nowadays that will scarce hold the laying in,—he will last you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year.

Why he more than another?

FIRST CLOWN.

Why, sir, his hide is so tann’d with his trade that he will keep out water a great while. And your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. Here’s a skull now; this skull hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.

Whose was it?

FIRST CLOWN.

A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was. Whose do you think it was?

Nay, I know not.

FIRST CLOWN.

A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! A pour’d a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the King’s jester.

FIRST CLOWN.

E’en that.

Let me see. [_Takes the skull._] Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss’d I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that.—Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing.

What’s that, my lord?

Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ th’earth?

E’en so.

And smelt so? Pah!

[_Throws down the skull._]

E’en so, my lord.

To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bung-hole?

’Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.

No, faith, not a jot. But to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus. Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam whereto he was converted might they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t’expel the winter’s flaw. But soft! but soft! aside! Here comes the King.

Enter priests, &c, in procession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.

The Queen, the courtiers. Who is that they follow? And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo it own life. ’Twas of some estate. Couch we awhile and mark.

[_Retiring with Horatio._]

What ceremony else?

That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark.

What ceremony else?

Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d As we have warranties. Her death was doubtful; And but that great command o’ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d Till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her. Yet here she is allowed her virgin rites, Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial.

Must there no more be done?

No more be done. We should profane the service of the dead To sing sage requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.

Lay her i’ th’earth, And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. I tell thee, churlish priest, A minist’ring angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling.

What, the fair Ophelia?

[_Scattering flowers._] Sweets to the sweet. Farewell. I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew’d thy grave.

O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv’d thee of. Hold off the earth a while, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms. [_Leaps into the grave._] Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head Of blue Olympus.

[_Advancing._] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wand’ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [_Leaps into the grave._]

[_Grappling with him._] The devil take thy soul!

Thou pray’st not well. I prithee take thy fingers from my throat; For though I am not splenative and rash, Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand!

Pluck them asunder.

Hamlet! Hamlet!

All. Gentlemen!

Good my lord, be quiet.

[_The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave._]

Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

O my son, what theme?

I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum. What wilt thou do for her?

O, he is mad, Laertes.

For love of God forbear him!

’Swounds, show me what thou’lt do: Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself? Woul’t drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? I’ll do’t. Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart. Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou.

This is mere madness: And thus awhile the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclos’d, His silence will sit drooping.

Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus? I lov’d you ever. But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.

[_Exit Horatio._]

[_To Laertes_] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech; We’ll put the matter to the present push.— Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son. This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then in patience our proceeding be.

ACT V, SCENE II. A hall in the Castle.

Enter Hamlet and Horatio.

So much for this, sir. Now let me see the other; You do remember all the circumstance?

Remember it, my lord!

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep. Methought I lay Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly, And prais’d be rashness for it,—let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well, When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

That is most certain.

Up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark Grop’d I to find out them; had my desire, Finger’d their packet, and in fine, withdrew To mine own room again, making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio, Oh royal knavery! an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons, Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too, With ho! such bugs and goblins in my life, That on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off.

Is’t possible?

Here’s the commission, read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed?

I beseech you.

Being thus benetted round with villanies,— Or I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play,—I sat me down, Devis’d a new commission, wrote it fair: I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour’d much How to forget that learning; but, sir, now It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know The effect of what I wrote?

Ay, good my lord.

An earnest conjuration from the King, As England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm might flourish, As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma ’tween their amities, And many such-like ‘as’es of great charge, That on the view and know of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving-time allow’d.

How was this seal’d?

Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father’s signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal: Folded the writ up in the form of the other, Subscrib’d it: gave’t th’impression; plac’d it safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea-fight, and what to this was sequent Thou know’st already.

So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to’t.

Why, man, they did make love to this employment. They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow. ’Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites.

Why, what a king is this!

Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now upon,— He that hath kill’d my king, and whor’d my mother, Popp’d in between th’election and my hopes, Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage—is’t not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? And is’t not to be damn’d To let this canker of our nature come In further evil?

It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there.

It will be short. The interim is mine; And a man’s life’s no more than to say ‘One’. But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself; For by the image of my cause I see The portraiture of his. I’ll court his favours. But sure the bravery of his grief did put me Into a tow’ring passion.

Peace, who comes here?

Enter Osric.

Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.

I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this waterfly?

No, my good lord.

Thy state is the more gracious; for ’tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile; let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess; ’tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt.

Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his Majesty.

I will receive it with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; ’tis for the head.

I thank your lordship, ’tis very hot.

No, believe me, ’tis very cold, the wind is northerly.

It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.

Methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.

Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,—as ’twere—I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter,—

I beseech you, remember,—

[_Hamlet moves him to put on his hat._]

Nay, in good faith; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing. Indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.

Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you, though I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy th’arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror and who else would trace him his umbrage, nothing more.

Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.

The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath?

Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do’t, sir, really.

What imports the nomination of this gentleman?

Of Laertes?

His purse is empty already, all’s golden words are spent.

Of him, sir.

I know you are not ignorant,—

I would you did, sir; yet in faith if you did, it would not much approve me. Well, sir?

You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is,—

I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself.

I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him, by them in his meed he’s unfellowed.

What’s his weapon?

Rapier and dagger.

That’s two of his weapons. But well.

The King, sir, hath wager’d with him six Barbary horses, against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so. Three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit.

What call you the carriages?

I knew you must be edified by the margin ere you had done.

The carriages, sir, are the hangers.

The phrase would be more german to the matter if we could carry cannon by our sides. I would it might be hangers till then. But on. Six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal conceited carriages: that’s the French bet against the Danish. Why is this all imponed, as you call it?

The King, sir, hath laid that in a dozen passes between you and him, he shall not exceed you three hits. He hath laid on twelve for nine. And it would come to immediate trial if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.

How if I answer no?

I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.

Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the King hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.

Shall I re-deliver you e’en so?

To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will.

I commend my duty to your lordship.

Yours, yours.

[_Exit Osric._]

He does well to commend it himself, there are no tongues else for’s turn.

This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.

He did comply with his dug before he suck’d it. Thus has he,—and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes on,— only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter; a kind of yeasty collection, which carries them through and through the most fanned and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out.

Enter a Lord.

My lord, his Majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall. He sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes or that you will take longer time.

I am constant to my purposes, they follow the King’s pleasure. If his fitness speaks, mine is ready. Now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now.

The King and Queen and all are coming down.

In happy time.

The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play.

She well instructs me.

[_Exit Lord._]

You will lose this wager, my lord.

I do not think so. Since he went into France, I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart: but it is no matter.

Nay, good my lord.

It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman.

If your mind dislike anything, obey it. I will forestall their repair hither, and say you are not fit.

Not a whit, we defy augury. There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?

Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, Osric and Attendants with foils &c.

Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me.

[_The King puts Laertes’s hand into Hamlet’s._]

Give me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong; But pardon’t as you are a gentleman. This presence knows, and you must needs have heard, How I am punish’d with sore distraction. What I have done That might your nature, honour, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet. If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness. If’t be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d; His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. Sir, in this audience, Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts That I have shot my arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother.

I am satisfied in nature, Whose motive in this case should stir me most To my revenge. But in my terms of honour I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement Till by some elder masters of known honour I have a voice and precedent of peace To keep my name ungor’d. But till that time I do receive your offer’d love like love, And will not wrong it.

I embrace it freely, And will this brother’s wager frankly play.— Give us the foils; come on.

Come, one for me.

I’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance Your skill shall like a star i’ th’ darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed.

You mock me, sir.

No, by this hand.

Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager?

Very well, my lord. Your Grace has laid the odds o’ the weaker side.

I do not fear it. I have seen you both; But since he is better’d, we have therefore odds.

This is too heavy. Let me see another.

This likes me well. These foils have all a length?

[_They prepare to play._]

Ay, my good lord.

Set me the stoups of wine upon that table. If Hamlet give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire; The King shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath, And in the cup an union shall he throw Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, ‘Now the King drinks to Hamlet.’ Come, begin. And you, the judges, bear a wary eye.

Come on, sir.

Come, my lord.

[_They play._]

A hit, a very palpable hit.

Well; again.

Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine; Here’s to thy health.

[_Trumpets sound, and cannon shot off within._]

Give him the cup.

I’ll play this bout first; set it by awhile.

[_They play._]

Come. Another hit; what say you?

A touch, a touch, I do confess.

Our son shall win.

He’s fat, and scant of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.

Good madam.

Gertrude, do not drink.

I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me.

[_Aside._] It is the poison’d cup; it is too late.

I dare not drink yet, madam. By and by.

Come, let me wipe thy face.

My lord, I’ll hit him now.

I do not think’t.

[_Aside._] And yet ’tis almost ’gainst my conscience.

Come for the third, Laertes. You do but dally. I pray you pass with your best violence. I am afeard you make a wanton of me.

Say you so? Come on.

[_They play._]

Nothing neither way.

Have at you now.

[_Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes._]

Part them; they are incens’d.

Nay, come again!

[_The Queen falls._]

Look to the Queen there, ho!

They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?

How is’t, Laertes?

Why, as a woodcock to my own springe, Osric. I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery.

How does the Queen?

She swoons to see them bleed.

No, no, the drink, the drink! O my dear Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poison’d.

O villany! Ho! Let the door be lock’d: Treachery! Seek it out.

[_Laertes falls._]

It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain. No medicine in the world can do thee good. In thee there is not half an hour of life; The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom’d. The foul practice Hath turn’d itself on me. Lo, here I lie, Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poison’d. I can no more. The King, the King’s to blame.

The point envenom’d too! Then, venom, to thy work.

[_Stabs the King._]

OSRIC and LORDS. Treason! treason!

O yet defend me, friends. I am but hurt.

Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion. Is thy union here? Follow my mother.

[_King dies._]

He is justly serv’d. It is a poison temper’d by himself. Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me.

Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio. Wretched Queen, adieu. You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death, Is strict in his arrest,—O, I could tell you,— But let it be. Horatio, I am dead, Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied.

Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left.

As th’art a man, Give me the cup. Let go; by Heaven, I’ll have’t. O good Horatio, what a wounded name, Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me. If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.

[_March afar off, and shot within._]

What warlike noise is this?

Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, To the ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley.

O, I die, Horatio. The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I do prophesy th’election lights On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell him, with the occurrents more and less, Which have solicited. The rest is silence.

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Why does the drum come hither?

[_March within._]

Enter Fortinbras, the English Ambassadors and others.

Where is this sight?

What is it you would see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.

This quarry cries on havoc. O proud death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot So bloodily hast struck?

FIRST AMBASSADOR.

The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late. The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, To tell him his commandment is fulfill’d, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead. Where should we have our thanks?

Not from his mouth, Had it th’ability of life to thank you. He never gave commandment for their death. But since, so jump upon this bloody question, You from the Polack wars, and you from England Are here arriv’d, give order that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view, And let me speak to th’ yet unknowing world How these things came about. So shall you hear Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts, Of accidental judgements, casual slaughters, Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause, And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall’n on the inventors’ heads. All this can I Truly deliver.

Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune. I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me.

Of that I shall have also cause to speak, And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more. But let this same be presently perform’d, Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mischance On plots and errors happen.

Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage, For he was likely, had he been put on, To have prov’d most royally; and for his passage, The soldiers’ music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him. Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

[_A dead march._]

[_Exeunt, bearing off the bodies, after which a peal of ordnance is shot off._]

Contents — 22 sections

1. ACT II
2. ACT III
3. ACT IV
4. ACT V
5. ACT I
6. ACT I, SCENE II. The same. A public place.
7. ACT I, SCENE III. The same. A street.
8. ACT II
9. ACT II, SCENE II. A room in Caesar’s palace.
10. ACT II, SCENE III. A street near the Capitol.
11. ACT II, SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus.
12. ACT III
13. ACT III, SCENE II. The same. The Forum.
14. ACT III, SCENE III. The same. A street.
15. ACT IV
16. ACT IV, SCENE II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis.
17. ACT IV, SCENE III. Within the tent of Brutus.
18. ACT V
19. ACT V, SCENE II. The same. The field of battle.
20. ACT V, SCENE III. Another part of the field.
21. ACT V, SCENE IV. Another part of the field.
22. ACT V, SCENE V. Another part of the field.

ACT II

Scene I. Rome. Brutus’ orchard Scene II. A room in Caesar’s palace Scene III. A street near the Capitol Scene IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus

ACT III

Scene I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting Scene II. The same. The Forum Scene III. The same. A street

ACT IV

Scene I. A room in Antony’s house Scene II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis Scene III. Within the tent of Brutus

ACT V

Scene I. The plains of Philippi Scene II. The same. The field of battle Scene III. Another part of the field Scene IV. Another part of the field Scene V. Another part of the field

Dramatis Personæ

JULIUS CAESAR OCTAVIUS CAESAR, Triumvir after his death. MARCUS ANTONIUS, ” ” ” M. AEMILIUS LEPIDUS, ” ” ” CICERO, PUBLIUS, POPILIUS LENA, Senators. MARCUS BRUTUS, Conspirator against Caesar. CASSIUS, ” ” ” CASCA, ” ” ” TREBONIUS, ” ” ” LIGARIUS,” ” ” DECIUS BRUTUS, ” ” ” METELLUS CIMBER, ” ” ” CINNA, ” ” ” FLAVIUS, tribune MARULLUS, tribune ARTEMIDORUS, a Sophist of Cnidos. A Soothsayer CINNA, a poet. Another Poet. LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, MESSALA, young CATO, and VOLUMNIUS, Friends to Brutus and Cassius. VARRO, CLITUS, CLAUDIUS, STRATO, LUCIUS, DARDANIUS, Servants to Brutus PINDARUS, Servant to Cassius

CALPHURNIA, wife to Caesar PORTIA, wife to Brutus

The Ghost of Caesar

Senators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners, Messengers, and Servants.

SCENE: Rome, the conspirators’ camp near Sardis, and the plains of Philippi.

ACT I

SCENE I. Rome. A street.

Enter Flavius, Marullus and a throng of Citizens.

Hence! home, you idle creatures, get you home. Is this a holiday? What, know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a labouring day without the sign Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?

Why, sir, a carpenter.

Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir, what trade are you?

Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler.

But what trade art thou? Answer me directly.

A trade, sir, that I hope I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles.

What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade?

Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you.

What mean’st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow!

Why, sir, cobble you.

Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s matters, but withal I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes: when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s leather have gone upon my handiwork.

But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?

Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.

Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation, To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout, That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way, That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude.

Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

[_Exeunt Citizens._]

See whether their basest metal be not mov’d; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images, If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.

May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal.

It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar’s trophies. I’ll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck’d from Caesar’s wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men, And keep us all in servile fearfulness.

ACT I, SCENE II. The same. A public place.

Enter, in procession, with music, Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calphurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius and Casca; a great crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.

Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

[_Music ceases._]

Here, my lord.

Stand you directly in Antonius’ way, When he doth run his course. Antonius.

Caesar, my lord?

Forget not in your speed, Antonius, To touch Calphurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse.

I shall remember. When Caesar says “Do this,” it is perform’d.

Set on; and leave no ceremony out.

Ha! Who calls?

Bid every noise be still; peace yet again!

[_Music ceases._]

Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music, Cry “Caesar”! Speak. Caesar is turn’d to hear.

Beware the Ides of March.

What man is that?

A soothsayer bids you beware the Ides of March.

Set him before me; let me see his face.

Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.

What say’st thou to me now? Speak once again.

Beware the Ides of March.

He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass.

[_Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius._]

Will you go see the order of the course?

Not I.

I pray you, do.

I am not gamesome: I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I’ll leave you.

Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have. You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you.

Cassius, Be not deceived: if I have veil’d my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved (Among which number, Cassius, be you one) Nor construe any further my neglect, Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion; By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other thing.

’Tis just: And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye, That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome, (Except immortal Caesar) speaking of Brutus, And groaning underneath this age’s yoke, Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes.

Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?

Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear; And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I, your glass, Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus: Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester; if you know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them; or if you know That I profess myself in banqueting, To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.

[_Flourish and shout._]

What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king.

Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so.

I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well, But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honour in one eye and death i’ the other, And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honour more than I fear death.

I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favour. Well, honour is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life; but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar; so were you; We both have fed as well, and we can both Endure the winter’s cold as well as he: For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, “Dar’st thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood, And swim to yonder point?” Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in, And bade him follow: so indeed he did. The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive the point propos’d, Caesar cried, “Help me, Cassius, or I sink!” I, as Aeneas, our great ancestor, Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar. And this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake: ’tis true, this god did shake: His coward lips did from their colour fly, And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his lustre. I did hear him groan: Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans Mark him, and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, “Give me some drink, Titinius,” As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world, And bear the palm alone.

[_Shout. Flourish._]

Another general shout? I do believe that these applauses are For some new honours that are heap’d on Caesar.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs, and peep about To find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. “Brutus” and “Caesar”: what should be in that “Caesar”? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ’em, “Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Caesar.” Now in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed, That he is grown so great? Age, thou art sham’d! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood, But it was fam’d with more than with one man? When could they say, till now, that talk’d of Rome, That her wide walls encompass’d but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say, There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d Th’ eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, As easily as a king!

That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this, and of these times, I shall recount hereafter. For this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further mov’d. What you have said, I will consider; what you have to say I will with patience hear; and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us.

I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.

Enter Caesar and his Train.

The games are done, and Caesar is returning.

As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve, And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today.

I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar’s brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calphurnia’s cheek is pale; and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross’d in conference by some senators.

Casca will tell us what the matter is.

Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

Fear him not, Caesar; he’s not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given.

Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music. Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit That could be mov’d to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart’s ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think’st of him.

[_Exeunt Caesar and his Train. Casca stays._]

You pull’d me by the cloak; would you speak with me?

Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanc’d today, That Caesar looks so sad.

Why, you were with him, were you not?

I should not then ask Casca what had chanc’d.

Why, there was a crown offer’d him; and being offer’d him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus; and then the people fell a-shouting.

What was the second noise for?

Why, for that too.

They shouted thrice: what was the last cry for?

Why, for that too.

Was the crown offer’d him thrice?

Ay, marry, was’t, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other; and at every putting-by mine honest neighbours shouted.

Who offer’d him the crown?

Why, Antony.

Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca.

I can as well be hang’d, as tell the manner of it: it was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown; yet ’twas not a crown neither, ’twas one of these coronets; and, as I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again: then he put it by again: but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still, as he refus’d it, the rabblement hooted, and clapp’d their chopt hands, and threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refus’d the crown, that it had, almost, choked Caesar, for he swooned, and fell down at it. And for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.

But, soft! I pray you. What, did Caesar swoon?

He fell down in the market-place, and foam’d at mouth, and was speechless.

’Tis very like: he hath the falling-sickness.

No, Caesar hath it not; but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness.

I know not what you mean by that; but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tag-rag people did not clap him and hiss him, according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man.

What said he when he came unto himself?

Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he pluck’d me ope his doublet, and offer’d them his throat to cut. And I had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said anything amiss, he desir’d their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, “Alas, good soul!” and forgave him with all their hearts. But there’s no heed to be taken of them: if Caesar had stabb’d their mothers, they would have done no less.

And, after that, he came thus sad away?

Did Cicero say anything?

Ay, he spoke Greek.

To what effect?

Nay, and I tell you that, I’ll ne’er look you i’ the face again. But those that understood him smil’d at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar’s images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.

Will you sup with me tonight, Casca?

No, I am promis’d forth.

Will you dine with me tomorrow?

Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating.

Good. I will expect you.

Do so; farewell both.

[_Exit Casca._]

What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school.

So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.

And so it is. For this time I will leave you: Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you; or, if you will, Come home to me, and I will wait for you.

I will do so: till then, think of the world.

[_Exit Brutus._]

Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet I see, Thy honourable metal may be wrought From that it is dispos’d: therefore ’tis meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus. If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius, He should not humour me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings, all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely Caesar’s ambition shall be glanced at. And after this, let Caesar seat him sure, For we will shake him, or worse days endure.

ACT I, SCENE III. The same. A street.

Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca with his sword drawn, and Cicero.

Good even, Casca: brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so?

Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds Have riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seen Th’ ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction.

Why, saw you anything more wonderful?

A common slave, you’d know him well by sight, Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand, Not sensible of fire remain’d unscorch’d. Besides, I ha’ not since put up my sword, Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glared upon me, and went surly by, Without annoying me. And there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women, Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit, Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say, “These are their reasons; they are natural”; For I believe, they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon.

Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow?

He doth, for he did bid Antonius Send word to you he would be there tomorrow.

Goodnight then, Casca: this disturbed sky Is not to walk in.

Farewell, Cicero.

[_Exit Cicero._]

Enter Cassius.

Who’s there?

A Roman.

Casca, by your voice.

Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this!

A very pleasing night to honest men.

Who ever knew the heavens menace so?

Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk’d about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night; And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bar’d my bosom to the thunder-stone; And when the cross blue lightning seem’d to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it.

But wherefore did you so much tempt the Heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble, When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us.

You are dull, Casca; and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze, And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder, To see the strange impatience of the Heavens: But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts, from quality and kind; Why old men, fools, and children calculate, Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and pre-formed faculties, To monstrous quality; why, you shall find That Heaven hath infus’d them with these spirits, To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man Most like this dreadful night, That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, As doth the lion in the Capitol; A man no mightier than thyself, or me, In personal action; yet prodigious grown, And fearful, as these strange eruptions are.

’Tis Caesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius?

Let it be who it is: for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors; But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are dead, And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.

Indeed, they say the senators tomorrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king; And he shall wear his crown by sea and land, In every place, save here in Italy.

I know where I will wear this dagger then; Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius: Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat. Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure.

[_Thunder still._]

So can I: So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity.

And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf, But that he sees the Romans are but sheep: He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws. What trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar! But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I, perhaps, speak this Before a willing bondman: then I know My answer must be made; but I am arm’d, And dangers are to me indifferent.

You speak to Casca, and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand: Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest.

There’s a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have mov’d already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honourable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey’s Porch: for now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets; And the complexion of the element In favour’s like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible.

Enter Cinna.

Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste.

’Tis Cinna; I do know him by his gait; He is a friend. Cinna, where haste you so?

To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus Cimber?

No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay’d for, Cinna?

I am glad on’t. What a fearful night is this! There’s two or three of us have seen strange sights.

Am I not stay’d for? tell me.

Yes, you are. O Cassius, if you could But win the noble Brutus to our party—

Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor’s chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus’ statue: all this done, Repair to Pompey’s Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there?

All but Metellus Cimber, and he’s gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, And so bestow these papers as you bade me.

That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre.

[_Exit Cinna._]

Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, See Brutus at his house: three parts of him Is ours already, and the man entire Upon the next encounter, yields him ours.

O, he sits high in all the people’s hearts! And that which would appear offence in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness.

Him, and his worth, and our great need of him, You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight; and ere day, We will awake him, and be sure of him.

ACT II

SCENE I. Rome. Brutus’ orchard.

Enter Brutus.

What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day.—Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius!

Enter Lucius.

Call’d you, my lord?

Get me a taper in my study, Lucius: When it is lighted, come and call me here.

I will, my lord.

It must be by his death: and for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown’d: How that might change his nature, there’s the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, And that craves wary walking. Crown him?—that; And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, That at his will he may do danger with. Th’ abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins Remorse from power; and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway’d More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may; Then lest he may, prevent. And since the quarrel Will bear no colour for the thing he is, Fashion it thus: that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities: And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg Which hatch’d, would, as his kind grow mischievous; And kill him in the shell.

Enter Lucius.

The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint, I found This paper, thus seal’d up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed.

[_Gives him the letter._]

Get you to bed again; it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the Ides of March?

I know not, sir.

Look in the calendar, and bring me word.

I will, sir.

The exhalations, whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them.

[_Opens the letter and reads._]

_Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake and see thyself. Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress!_ “Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake!” Such instigations have been often dropp’d Where I have took them up. “Shall Rome, &c.” Thus must I piece it out: Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king. “Speak, strike, redress!” Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus.

Enter Lucius.

Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.

[_Knock within._]

’Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks.

[_Exit Lucius._]

Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.

Enter Lucius.

Sir, ’tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you.

Is he alone?

No, sir, there are moe with him.

Do you know them?

No, sir, their hats are pluck’d about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favour.

Let ’em enter.

[_Exit Lucius._]

They are the faction. O conspiracy, Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability: For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention.

Enter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber and Trebonius.

I think we are too bold upon your rest: Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?

I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you?

Yes, every man of them; and no man here But honours you; and everyone doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius.

He is welcome hither.

This Decius Brutus.

He is welcome too.

This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber.

They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night?

Shall I entreat a word?

[_They whisper._]

Here lies the east: doth not the day break here?

O, pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day.

You shall confess that you are both deceiv’d. Here, as I point my sword, the Sun arises; Which is a great way growing on the South, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence, up higher toward the North He first presents his fire; and the high East Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.

Give me your hands all over, one by one.

And let us swear our resolution.

No, not an oath. If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse— If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed. So let high-sighted tyranny range on, Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour The melting spirits of women; then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? what other bond Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word, And will not palter? and what other oath Than honesty to honesty engag’d, That this shall be, or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards, and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor th’ insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy, If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass’d from him.

But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us.

Let us not leave him out.

No, by no means.

O, let us have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said, his judgement rul’d our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity.

O, name him not; let us not break with him; For he will never follow anything That other men begin.

Then leave him out.

Indeed, he is not fit.

Shall no man else be touch’d but only Caesar?

Decius, well urg’d. I think it is not meet, Mark Antony, so well belov’d of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar: we shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know, his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all; which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together.

Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage, And after seem to chide ’em. This shall mark Our purpose necessary, and not envious; Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him; For he can do no more than Caesar’s arm When Caesar’s head is off.

Yet I fear him; For in the ingrafted love he bears to Caesar—

Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him: If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself; take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should; for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company.

There is no fear in him; let him not die; For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter.

[_Clock strikes._]

Peace! count the clock.

The clock hath stricken three.

’Tis time to part.

But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no; For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom’d terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers, May hold him from the Capitol today.

Never fear that: if he be so resolved, I can o’ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers. But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humour the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol.

Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.

By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?

Be that the uttermost; and fail not then.

Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey; I wonder none of you have thought of him.

Now, good Metellus, go along by him: He loves me well, and I have given him reason; Send him but hither, and I’ll fashion him.

The morning comes upon’s. We’ll leave you, Brutus. And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans.

Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy. And so, good morrow to you everyone.

[_Exeunt all but Brutus._]

Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.

Enter Portia.

Brutus, my lord.

Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning.

Nor for yours neither. Y’ have ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper, You suddenly arose, and walk’d about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And when I ask’d you what the matter was, You star’d upon me with ungentle looks. I urg’d you further; then you scratch’d your head, And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot; Yet I insisted, yet you answer’d not, But with an angry wafture of your hand Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem’d too much enkindled; and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humour, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep; And could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail’d on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.

I am not well in health, and that is all.

Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it.

Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed.

Is Brutus sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humours Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: and, upon my knees, I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, your self, your half, Why you are heavy, and what men tonight Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness.

Kneel not, gentle Portia.

I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I your self But, as it were, in sort or limitation, To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.

You are my true and honourable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.

If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife; I grant I am a woman; but withal A woman well reputed, Cato’s daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father’d and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience And not my husband’s secrets?

O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife!

Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go in awhile; And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste.

[_Exit Portia._]

Enter Lucius with Ligarius.

Lucius, who’s that knocks?

Here is a sick man that would speak with you.

Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how?

Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue.

O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!

I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honour.

Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.

By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honourable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. What’s to do?

A piece of work that will make sick men whole.

But are not some whole that we must make sick?

That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going, To whom it must be done.

Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you, To do I know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on.

Follow me then.

ACT II, SCENE II. A room in Caesar’s palace.

Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown.

Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight: Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out, “Help, ho! They murder Caesar!” Who’s within?

Enter a Servant.

My lord?

Go bid the priests do present sacrifice, And bring me their opinions of success.

I will, my lord.

Enter Calphurnia.

What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house today.

Caesar shall forth. The things that threaten’d me Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished.

Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within, Besides the things that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets, And graves have yawn’d, and yielded up their dead; Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan, And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar, these things are beyond all use, And I do fear them!

What can be avoided Whose end is purpos’d by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth; for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar.

When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear, Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

Enter Servant.

What say the augurers?

They would not have you to stir forth today. Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, They could not find a heart within the beast.

The gods do this in shame of cowardice: Caesar should be a beast without a heart If he should stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not. Danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter’d in one day, And I the elder and more terrible, And Caesar shall go forth.

Alas, my lord, Your wisdom is consum’d in confidence. Do not go forth today: call it my fear That keeps you in the house, and not your own. We’ll send Mark Antony to the Senate-house, And he shall say you are not well today. Let me upon my knee prevail in this.

Mark Antony shall say I am not well, And for thy humour, I will stay at home.

Enter Decius.

Here’s Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so.

Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar. I come to fetch you to the Senate-house.

And you are come in very happy time To bear my greeting to the Senators, And tell them that I will not come today. Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser: I will not come today. Tell them so, Decius.

Say he is sick.

Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far, To be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth? Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come.

Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh’d at when I tell them so.

The cause is in my will; I will not come. That is enough to satisfy the Senate. But for your private satisfaction, Because I love you, I will let you know: Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home. She dreamt tonight she saw my statue, Which like a fountain with an hundred spouts Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it. And these does she apply for warnings and portents And evils imminent; and on her knee Hath begg’d that I will stay at home today.

This dream is all amiss interpreted: It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bath’d, Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood, and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calphurnia’s dream is signified.

And this way have you well expounded it.

I have, when you have heard what I can say; And know it now. The Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render’d, for someone to say, “Break up the Senate till another time, When Caesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams.” If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper “Lo, Caesar is afraid”? Pardon me, Caesar; for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this, And reason to my love is liable.

How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go.

Enter Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, Cinna and Publius.

And look where Publius is come to fetch me.

Good morrow, Caesar.

Welcome, Publius. What, Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too? Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne’er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you lean. What is’t o’clock?

Caesar, ’tis strucken eight.

I thank you for your pains and courtesy.

Enter Antony.

See! Antony, that revels long a-nights, Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony.

So to most noble Caesar.

Bid them prepare within. I am to blame to be thus waited for. Now, Cinna; now, Metellus; what, Trebonius! I have an hour’s talk in store for you: Remember that you call on me today; Be near me, that I may remember you.

Caesar, I will. [_Aside._] and so near will I be, That your best friends shall wish I had been further.

Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with me; And we, like friends, will straightway go together.

[_Aside._] That every like is not the same, O Caesar, The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon.

ACT II, SCENE III. A street near the Capitol.

Enter Artemidorus, reading a paper.

_“Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wrong’d Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. If thou be’st not immortal, look about you: security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, Artemidorus.”_ Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayest live; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive.

ACT II, SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus.

Enter Portia and Lucius.

I pr’ythee, boy, run to the Senate-house; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay?

To know my errand, madam.

I would have had thee there and here again, Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. [_Aside._] O constancy, be strong upon my side, Set a huge mountain ’tween my heart and tongue! I have a man’s mind, but a woman’s might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! Art thou here yet?

Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else?

Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth: and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy, what noise is that?

I hear none, madam.

Pr’ythee, listen well. I heard a bustling rumour, like a fray, And the wind brings it from the Capitol.

Sooth, madam, I hear nothing.

Enter the Soothsayer.

Come hither, fellow: Which way hast thou been?

At mine own house, good lady.

What is’t o’clock?

About the ninth hour, lady.

Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol?

Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand, To see him pass on to the Capitol.

Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not?

That I have, lady, if it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself.

Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him?

None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow. The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of Senators, of Praetors, common suitors, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death: I’ll get me to a place more void, and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along.

I must go in. [_Aside._] Ay me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is! O Brutus, The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise! Sure, the boy heard me. Brutus hath a suit That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint. Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; Say I am merry; come to me again, And bring me word what he doth say to thee.

ACT III

SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting.

A crowd of people in the street leading to the Capitol. Flourish. Enter Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Artemidorus, Publius, Popilius and the Soothsayer.

The Ides of March are come.

Ay, Caesar; but not gone.

Hail, Caesar! Read this schedule.

Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read, At your best leisure, this his humble suit.

O Caesar, read mine first; for mine’s a suit That touches Caesar nearer. Read it, great Caesar.

What touches us ourself shall be last serv’d.

Delay not, Caesar. Read it instantly.

What, is the fellow mad?

Sirrah, give place.

What, urge you your petitions in the street? Come to the Capitol.

Caesar enters the Capitol, the rest following. All the Senators rise.

I wish your enterprise today may thrive.

What enterprise, Popilius?

Fare you well.

[_Advances to Caesar._]

What said Popilius Lena?

He wish’d today our enterprise might thrive. I fear our purpose is discovered.

Look how he makes to Caesar: mark him.

Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention. Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known, Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back, For I will slay myself.

Cassius, be constant: Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes; For look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change.

Trebonius knows his time, for look you, Brutus, He draws Mark Antony out of the way.

[_Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. Caesar and the Senators take their seats._]

Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go, And presently prefer his suit to Caesar.

He is address’d; press near and second him.

Casca, you are the first that rears your hand.

Are we all ready? What is now amiss That Caesar and his Senate must redress?

Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar, Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat An humble heart.

I must prevent thee, Cimber. These couchings and these lowly courtesies Might fire the blood of ordinary men, And turn pre-ordinance and first decree Into the law of children. Be not fond, To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood That will be thaw’d from the true quality With that which melteth fools; I mean sweet words, Low-crooked curtsies, and base spaniel fawning. Thy brother by decree is banished: If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn for him, I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. Know, Caesar dost not wrong, nor without cause Will he be satisfied.

Is there no voice more worthy than my own, To sound more sweetly in great Caesar’s ear For the repealing of my banish’d brother?

I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar; Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may Have an immediate freedom of repeal.

What, Brutus?

Pardon, Caesar; Caesar, pardon: As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall, To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.

I could be well mov’d, if I were as you; If I could pray to move, prayers would move me: But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks, They are all fire, and every one doth shine; But there’s but one in all doth hold his place. So in the world; ’tis furnish’d well with men, And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive; Yet in the number I do know but one That unassailable holds on his rank, Unshak’d of motion: and that I am he, Let me a little show it, even in this, That I was constant Cimber should be banish’d, And constant do remain to keep him so.

O Caesar,—

Hence! wilt thou lift up Olympus?

Great Caesar,—

Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?

Speak, hands, for me!

[_Casca stabs Caesar in the neck. Caesar catches hold of his arm. He is then stabbed by several other Conspirators, and at last by Marcus Brutus._]

_Et tu, Brute?_—Then fall, Caesar!

[_Dies. The Senators and People retire in confusion._]

Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets.

Some to the common pulpits and cry out, “Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!”

People and Senators, be not affrighted. Fly not; stand still; ambition’s debt is paid.

Go to the pulpit, Brutus.

And Cassius too.

Where’s Publius?

Here, quite confounded with this mutiny.

Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar’s Should chance—

Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer! There is no harm intended to your person, Nor to no Roman else. So tell them, Publius.

And leave us, Publius; lest that the people Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief.

Do so; and let no man abide this deed But we the doers.

Enter Trebonius.

Where’s Antony?

Fled to his house amaz’d. Men, wives, and children stare, cry out, and run, As it were doomsday.

Fates, we will know your pleasures. That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time And drawing days out, that men stand upon.

Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death.

Grant that, and then is death a benefit: So are we Caesar’s friends, that have abridg’d His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop, And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s blood Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords: Then walk we forth, even to the market-place, And waving our red weapons o’er our heads, Let’s all cry, “Peace, freedom, and liberty!”

Stoop then, and wash. How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In States unborn, and accents yet unknown!

How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport, That now on Pompey’s basis lies along, No worthier than the dust!

So oft as that shall be, So often shall the knot of us be call’d The men that gave their country liberty.

What, shall we forth?

Ay, every man away. Brutus shall lead; and we will grace his heels With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome.

Enter a Servant.

Soft, who comes here? A friend of Antony’s.

Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel; Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down; And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say: Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest; Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving; Say I love Brutus and I honour him; Say I fear’d Caesar, honour’d him, and lov’d him. If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony May safely come to him, and be resolv’d How Caesar hath deserv’d to lie in death, Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead So well as Brutus living; but will follow The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus Thorough the hazards of this untrod state, With all true faith. So says my master Antony.

Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman; I never thought him worse. Tell him, so please him come unto this place, He shall be satisfied and, by my honour, Depart untouch’d.

I’ll fetch him presently.

I know that we shall have him well to friend.

I wish we may: but yet have I a mind That fears him much; and my misgiving still Falls shrewdly to the purpose.

Enter Antony.

But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony.

O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank: If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Caesar’s death’s hour; nor no instrument Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die. No place will please me so, no means of death, As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirits of this age.

O Antony, beg not your death of us. Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, As by our hands and this our present act You see we do; yet see you but our hands And this the bleeding business they have done. Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; And pity to the general wrong of Rome— As fire drives out fire, so pity pity— Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part, To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony; Our arms in strength of malice, and our hearts Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.

Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s In the disposing of new dignities.

Only be patient till we have appeas’d The multitude, beside themselves with fear, And then we will deliver you the cause Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, Have thus proceeded.

I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand. First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand. Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus; Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all—alas, what shall I say? My credit now stands on such slippery ground, That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, Either a coward or a flatterer. That I did love thee, Caesar, O, ’tis true: If then thy spirit look upon us now, Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death, To see thy Antony making his peace, Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, Most noble, in the presence of thy corse? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay’d, brave hart; Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand, Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe. O world, thou wast the forest to this hart; And this indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer strucken by many princes, Dost thou here lie!

Mark Antony,—

Pardon me, Caius Cassius: The enemies of Caesar shall say this; Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty.

I blame you not for praising Caesar so; But what compact mean you to have with us? Will you be prick’d in number of our friends, Or shall we on, and not depend on you?

Therefore I took your hands; but was indeed Sway’d from the point, by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all, and love you all, Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons Why, and wherein, Caesar was dangerous.

Or else were this a savage spectacle. Our reasons are so full of good regard That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, You should be satisfied.

That’s all I seek, And am moreover suitor that I may Produce his body to the market-place; And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, Speak in the order of his funeral.

You shall, Mark Antony.

Brutus, a word with you. [_Aside to Brutus._] You know not what you do. Do not consent That Antony speak in his funeral. Know you how much the people may be mov’d By that which he will utter?

[_Aside to Cassius._] By your pardon: I will myself into the pulpit first, And show the reason of our Caesar’s death. What Antony shall speak, I will protest He speaks by leave and by permission; And that we are contented Caesar shall Have all true rights and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong.

[_Aside to Brutus._] I know not what may fall; I like it not.

Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar’s body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, But speak all good you can devise of Caesar, And say you do’t by our permission; Else shall you not have any hand at all About his funeral. And you shall speak In the same pulpit whereto I am going, After my speech is ended.

Be it so; I do desire no more.

Prepare the body, then, and follow us.

[_Exeunt all but Antony._]

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers. Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, Which, like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue, A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quartered with the hands of war; All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds: And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from Hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

Enter a Servant.

You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not?

I do, Mark Antony.

Caesar did write for him to come to Rome.

He did receive his letters, and is coming, And bid me say to you by word of mouth,— [_Seeing the body._] O Caesar!

Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching; for mine eyes, Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Began to water. Is thy master coming?

He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome.

Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanc’d. Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, No Rome of safety for Octavius yet. Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile; Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse Into the market-place: there shall I try, In my oration, how the people take The cruel issue of these bloody men; According to the which thou shalt discourse To young Octavius of the state of things. Lend me your hand.

[_Exeunt with Caesar’s body._]

ACT III, SCENE II. The same. The Forum.

Enter Brutus and goes into the pulpit, and Cassius, with a throng of Citizens.

We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied.

Then follow me, and give me audience, friends. Cassius, go you into the other street And part the numbers. Those that will hear me speak, let ’em stay here; Those that will follow Cassius, go with him; And public reasons shall be rendered Of Caesar’s death.

FIRST CITIZEN.

I will hear Brutus speak.

SECOND CITIZEN.

I will hear Cassius; and compare their reasons, When severally we hear them rendered.

[_Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens. Brutus goes into the rostrum._]

THIRD CITIZEN.

The noble Brutus is ascended: silence!

Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears, for his love; joy for his fortune; honour for his valour; and death, for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country? If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.

None, Brutus, none.

Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enroll’d in the Capitol, his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his offences enforc’d, for which he suffered death.

Enter Antony and others, with Caesar’s body.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart, that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

Live, Brutus! live, live!

FIRST CITIZEN.

Bring him with triumph home unto his house.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Give him a statue with his ancestors.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Let him be Caesar.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Caesar’s better parts Shall be crown’d in Brutus.

FIRST CITIZEN.

We’ll bring him to his house with shouts and clamours.

My countrymen,—

SECOND CITIZEN.

Peace! Silence! Brutus speaks.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Peace, ho!

Good countrymen, let me depart alone, And, for my sake, stay here with Antony. Do grace to Caesar’s corpse, and grace his speech Tending to Caesar’s glories, which Mark Antony, By our permission, is allow’d to make. I do entreat you, not a man depart, Save I alone, till Antony have spoke.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Let him go up into the public chair. We’ll hear him. Noble Antony, go up.

For Brutus’ sake, I am beholding to you.

[_Goes up._]

FOURTH CITIZEN.

What does he say of Brutus?

THIRD CITIZEN.

He says, for Brutus’ sake He finds himself beholding to us all.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here!

FIRST CITIZEN.

This Caesar was a tyrant.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Nay, that’s certain. We are blest that Rome is rid of him.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Peace! let us hear what Antony can say.

You gentle Romans,—

Peace, ho! let us hear him.

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious. If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer’d it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, For Brutus is an honourable man, So are they all, all honourable men, Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And sure he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause; What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me. My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.

SECOND CITIZEN.

If thou consider rightly of the matter, Caesar has had great wrong.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Has he, masters? I fear there will a worse come in his place.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Mark’d ye his words? He would not take the crown; Therefore ’tis certain he was not ambitious.

FIRST CITIZEN.

If it be found so, some will dear abide it.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Poor soul, his eyes are red as fire with weeping.

THIRD CITIZEN.

There’s not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Now mark him; he begins again to speak.

But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! If I were dispos’d to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here’s a parchment with the seal of Caesar, I found it in his closet; ’tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament, Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read, And they would go and kiss dead Caesar’s wounds, And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

We’ll hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony.

The will, the will! We will hear Caesar’s will.

Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it. It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad. ’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; For if you should, O, what would come of it?

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Read the will! We’ll hear it, Antony; You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will!

Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honourable men Whose daggers have stabb’d Caesar; I do fear it.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

They were traitors. Honourable men!

The will! The testament!

SECOND CITIZEN.

They were villains, murderers. The will! Read the will!

You will compel me then to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?

Come down.

SECOND CITIZEN.

[_He comes down._]

THIRD CITIZEN.

You shall have leave.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

A ring! Stand round.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Stand from the hearse, stand from the body.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Room for Antony, most noble Antony!

Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.

Stand back; room! bear back.

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle. I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; ’Twas on a Summer’s evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through: See what a rent the envious Casca made: Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d; And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’d If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him. This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms, Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart; And in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey’s statue Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us. O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what weep you when you but behold Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors.

FIRST CITIZEN.

O piteous spectacle!

SECOND CITIZEN.

O noble Caesar!

THIRD CITIZEN.

O woeful day!

FOURTH CITIZEN.

O traitors, villains!

FIRST CITIZEN.

O most bloody sight!

SECOND CITIZEN.

We will be revenged.

Revenge,—about,—seek,—burn,—fire,—kill,—slay,—let not a traitor live!

Stay, countrymen.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Peace there! Hear the noble Antony.

SECOND CITIZEN.

We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him.

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it. They’re wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know, Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

We’ll mutiny.

FIRST CITIZEN.

We’ll burn the house of Brutus.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Away, then! come, seek the conspirators.

Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.

Peace, ho! Hear Antony; most noble Antony.

Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not; I must tell you then. You have forgot the will I told you of.

Most true; the will!—let’s stay, and hear the will.

Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Most noble Caesar! We’ll revenge his death.

THIRD CITIZEN.

O, royal Caesar!

Hear me with patience.

Peace, ho!

Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever; common pleasures, To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! when comes such another?

FIRST CITIZEN.

Never, never. Come, away, away! We’ll burn his body in the holy place, And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses. Take up the body.

SECOND CITIZEN.

Go, fetch fire.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Pluck down benches.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Pluck down forms, windows, anything.

[_Exeunt Citizens, with the body._]

Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt!

Enter a Servant.

How now, fellow?

Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.

Where is he?

He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house.

And thither will I straight to visit him. He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us anything.

I heard him say Brutus and Cassius Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome.

Belike they had some notice of the people, How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius.

ACT III, SCENE III. The same. A street.

Enter Cinna, the poet, and after him the citizens.

I dreamt tonight that I did feast with Caesar, And things unluckily charge my fantasy. I have no will to wander forth of doors, Yet something leads me forth.

FIRST CITIZEN.

What is your name?

SECOND CITIZEN.

Whither are you going?

THIRD CITIZEN.

Where do you dwell?

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Are you a married man or a bachelor?

SECOND CITIZEN.

Answer every man directly.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Ay, and briefly.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Ay, and wisely.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Ay, and truly, you were best.

What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly. Wisely I say I am a bachelor.

SECOND CITIZEN.

That’s as much as to say they are fools that marry; you’ll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed, directly.

Directly, I am going to Caesar’s funeral.

FIRST CITIZEN.

As a friend, or an enemy?

As a friend.

SECOND CITIZEN.

That matter is answered directly.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

For your dwelling, briefly.

Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Your name, sir, truly.

Truly, my name is Cinna.

FIRST CITIZEN.

Tear him to pieces! He’s a conspirator.

I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses.

I am not Cinna the conspirator.

FOURTH CITIZEN.

It is no matter, his name’s Cinna; pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going.

THIRD CITIZEN.

Tear him, tear him! Come; brands, ho! firebrands. To Brutus’, to Cassius’; burn all. Some to Decius’ house, and some to Casca’s, some to Ligarius’. Away, go!

ACT IV

SCENE I. Rome. A room in Antony’s house.

Enter Antony, Octavius and Lepidus, seated at a table.

These many then shall die; their names are prick’d.

Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus?

I do consent,—

Prick him down, Antony.

Upon condition Publius shall not live, Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony.

He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him. But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar’s house; Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine How to cut off some charge in legacies.

What, shall I find you here?

Or here, or at the Capitol.

[_Exit Lepidus._]

This is a slight unmeritable man, Meet to be sent on errands. Is it fit, The three-fold world divided, he should stand One of the three to share it?

So you thought him, And took his voice who should be prick’d to die In our black sentence and proscription.

Octavius, I have seen more days than you; And though we lay these honours on this man, To ease ourselves of divers sland’rous loads, He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, To groan and sweat under the business, Either led or driven, as we point the way; And having brought our treasure where we will, Then take we down his load, and turn him off, Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears, And graze in commons.

You may do your will; But he’s a tried and valiant soldier.

So is my horse, Octavius; and for that I do appoint him store of provender. It is a creature that I teach to fight, To wind, to stop, to run directly on, His corporal motion govern’d by my spirit. And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so: He must be taught, and train’d, and bid go forth: A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds On objects, arts, and imitations, Which, out of use and stal’d by other men, Begin his fashion. Do not talk of him But as a property. And now, Octavius, Listen great things. Brutus and Cassius Are levying powers; we must straight make head. Therefore let our alliance be combin’d, Our best friends made, our means stretch’d; And let us presently go sit in council, How covert matters may be best disclos’d, And open perils surest answered.

Let us do so: for we are at the stake, And bay’d about with many enemies; And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, Millions of mischiefs.

ACT IV, SCENE II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis.

Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Titinius and Soldiers; Pindarus meeting them; Lucius at some distance.

Stand, ho!

Give the word, ho! and stand.

What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near?

He is at hand, and Pindarus is come To do you salutation from his master.

[_Pindarus gives a letter to Brutus._]

He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, In his own change, or by ill officers, Hath given me some worthy cause to wish Things done, undone: but, if he be at hand, I shall be satisfied.

I do not doubt But that my noble master will appear Such as he is, full of regard and honour.

He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius; How he received you, let me be resolv’d.

With courtesy and with respect enough, But not with such familiar instances, Nor with such free and friendly conference, As he hath us’d of old.

Thou hast describ’d A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius, When love begins to sicken and decay It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith; But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make gallant show and promise of their mettle;

[_Low march within._]

But when they should endure the bloody spur, They fall their crests, and like deceitful jades Sink in the trial. Comes his army on?

They meant this night in Sardis to be quarter’d; The greater part, the horse in general, Are come with Cassius.

Enter Cassius and Soldiers.

Hark! he is arriv’d. March gently on to meet him.

Stand, ho!

Stand, ho! Speak the word along.

FIRST SOLDIER.

SECOND SOLDIER.

THIRD SOLDIER.

Most noble brother, you have done me wrong.

Judge me, you gods; wrong I mine enemies? And if not so, how should I wrong a brother?

Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs; And when you do them—

Cassius, be content. Speak your griefs softly, I do know you well. Before the eyes of both our armies here, Which should perceive nothing but love from us, Let us not wrangle. Bid them move away; Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, And I will give you audience.

Pindarus, Bid our commanders lead their charges off A little from this ground.

Lucilius, do you the like; and let no man Come to our tent till we have done our conference. Lucius and Titinius, guard our door.

ACT IV, SCENE III. Within the tent of Brutus.

Enter Brutus and Cassius.

That you have wrong’d me doth appear in this: You have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians; Wherein my letters, praying on his side Because I knew the man, were slighted off.

You wrong’d yourself to write in such a case.

In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment.

Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers.

I an itching palm! You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

The name of Cassius honours this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Remember March, the Ides of March remember: Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake? What villain touch’d his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What! Shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honours For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

Brutus, bait not me, I’ll not endure it. You forget yourself, To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions.

Go to; you are not, Cassius.

I am.

I say you are not.

Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther.

Away, slight man!

Is’t possible?

Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

O ye gods, ye gods! Must I endure all this?

All this? ay, more: fret till your proud heart break; Go show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humour? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you; for, from this day forth, I’ll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish.

Is it come to this?

You say you are a better soldier: Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus. I said, an elder soldier, not a better: Did I say better?

If you did, I care not.

When Caesar liv’d, he durst not thus have mov’d me.

Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.

I durst not?

What? durst not tempt him?

For your life you durst not.

Do not presume too much upon my love. I may do that I shall be sorry for.

You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am arm’d so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me; For I can raise no money by vile means: By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces!

I denied you not.

You did.

I did not. He was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath riv’d my heart. A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

I do not, till you practise them on me.

You love me not.

I do not like your faults.

A friendly eye could never see such faults.

A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.

Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is a-weary of the world: Hated by one he loves; brav’d by his brother; Check’d like a bondman; all his faults observ’d, Set in a note-book, learn’d and conn’d by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold: If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth. I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart: Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Sheathe your dagger. Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again.

Hath Cassius liv’d To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-temper’d vexeth him?

When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too.

Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

And my heart too.

O Brutus!

What’s the matter?

Have not you love enough to bear with me, When that rash humour which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful?

Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius and Lucius.

[_Within._] Let me go in to see the generals, There is some grudge between ’em; ’tis not meet They be alone.

[_Within._] You shall not come to them.

[_Within._] Nothing but death shall stay me.

How now! What’s the matter?

For shame, you generals! What do you mean? Love, and be friends, as two such men should be; For I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye.

Ha, ha! How vilely doth this cynic rhyme!

Get you hence, sirrah. Saucy fellow, hence!

Bear with him, Brutus; ’tis his fashion.

I’ll know his humour when he knows his time. What should the wars do with these jigging fools? Companion, hence!

Away, away, be gone!

[_Exit Poet._]

Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders Prepare to lodge their companies tonight.

And come yourselves and bring Messala with you Immediately to us.

[_Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius._]

Lucius, a bowl of wine.

[_Exit Lucius._]

I did not think you could have been so angry.

O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.

Of your philosophy you make no use, If you give place to accidental evils.

No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead.

Ha? Portia?

She is dead.

How ’scap’d I killing, when I cross’d you so? O insupportable and touching loss! Upon what sickness?

Impatient of my absence, And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony Have made themselves so strong; for with her death That tidings came. With this she fell distract, And, her attendants absent, swallow’d fire.

And died so?

Even so.

O ye immortal gods!

Enter Lucius, with wine and a taper.

Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.

My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup. I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love.

[_Exit Lucius._]

Enter Titinius and Messala.

Come in, Titinius! Welcome, good Messala. Now sit we close about this taper here, And call in question our necessities.

Portia, art thou gone?

No more, I pray you. Messala, I have here received letters, That young Octavius and Mark Antony Come down upon us with a mighty power, Bending their expedition toward Philippi.

Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor.

With what addition?

That by proscription and bills of outlawry Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus Have put to death an hundred Senators.

Therein our letters do not well agree. Mine speak of seventy Senators that died By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.

Cicero one!

Cicero is dead, And by that order of proscription. Had you your letters from your wife, my lord?

No, Messala.

Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Nothing, Messala.

That, methinks, is strange.

Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?

No, my lord.

Now as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell, For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once, I have the patience to endure it now.

Even so great men great losses should endure.

I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi presently?

I do not think it good.

Your reason?

This it is: ’Tis better that the enemy seek us; So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, Doing himself offence, whilst we, lying still, Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness.

Good reasons must of force give place to better. The people ’twixt Philippi and this ground Do stand but in a forced affection; For they have grudg’d us contribution. The enemy, marching along by them, By them shall make a fuller number up, Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encourag’d; From which advantage shall we cut him off If at Philippi we do face him there, These people at our back.

Hear me, good brother.

Under your pardon. You must note besides, That we have tried the utmost of our friends, Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe. The enemy increaseth every day; We, at the height, are ready to decline. There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures.

Then, with your will, go on: We’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi.

The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity, Which we will niggard with a little rest. There is no more to say?

No more. Good night: Early tomorrow will we rise, and hence.

Enter Lucius.

Lucius! My gown.

[_Exit Lucius._]

Farewell now, good Messala. Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius, Good night, and good repose.

O my dear brother! This was an ill beginning of the night. Never come such division ’tween our souls! Let it not, Brutus.

Enter Lucius with the gown.

Everything is well.

Good night, my lord.

Good night, good brother.

TITINIUS and MESSALA. Good night, Lord Brutus.

Farewell, everyone.

[_Exeunt Cassius, Titinius and Messala._]

Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument?

Here in the tent.

What, thou speak’st drowsily? Poor knave, I blame thee not, thou art o’er-watch’d. Call Claudius and some other of my men; I’ll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.

Varro and Claudius!

Enter Varro and Claudius.

Calls my lord?

I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep; It may be I shall raise you by-and-by On business to my brother Cassius.

So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure.

I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs, It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so; I put it in the pocket of my gown.

[_Servants lie down._]

I was sure your lordship did not give it me.

Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, And touch thy instrument a strain or two?

Ay, my lord, an’t please you.

It does, my boy. I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.

It is my duty, sir.

I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest.

I have slept, my lord, already.

It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long. If I do live, I will be good to thee.

[_Lucius plays and sings till he falls asleep._]

This is a sleepy tune. O murd’rous slumber, Layest thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night; I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument; I’ll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night. Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn’d down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.

Enter the Ghost of Caesar.

How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, That mak’st my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art.

Thy evil spirit, Brutus.

Why com’st thou?

To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi.

Well; then I shall see thee again?

Ay, at Philippi.

Why, I will see thee at Philippi then.

[_Ghost vanishes._]

Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest. Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. Boy! Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake! Claudius!

The strings, my lord, are false.

He thinks he still is at his instrument. Lucius, awake!

My lord?

Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out?

My lord, I do not know that I did cry.

Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see anything?

Nothing, my lord.

Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius! Fellow thou, awake!

My lord?

My lord?

Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep?

VARRO. CLAUDIUS. Did we, my lord?

Ay. Saw you anything?

No, my lord, I saw nothing.

Nor I, my lord.

Go and commend me to my brother Cassius; Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will follow.

VARRO. CLAUDIUS. It shall be done, my lord.

ACT V

SCENE I. The plains of Philippi.

Enter Octavius, Antony and their Army.

Now, Antony, our hopes are answered. You said the enemy would not come down, But keep the hills and upper regions. It proves not so; their battles are at hand, They mean to warn us at Philippi here, Answering before we do demand of them.

Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know Wherefore they do it. They could be content To visit other places, and come down With fearful bravery, thinking by this face To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage; But ’tis not so.

Enter a Messenger.

Prepare you, generals. The enemy comes on in gallant show; Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, And something to be done immediately.

Octavius, lead your battle softly on Upon the left hand of the even field.

Upon the right hand I. Keep thou the left.

Why do you cross me in this exigent?

I do not cross you; but I will do so.

Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius and their Army; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala and others.

They stand, and would have parley.

Stand fast, Titinius; we must out and talk.

Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle?

No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge. Make forth; the generals would have some words.

Stir not until the signal.

Words before blows: is it so, countrymen?

Not that we love words better, as you do.

Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius.

In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words; Witness the hole you made in Caesar’s heart, Crying, “Long live! Hail, Caesar!”

Antony, The posture of your blows are yet unknown; But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless.

Not stingless too.

O yes, and soundless too, For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting.

Villains, you did not so when your vile daggers Hack’d one another in the sides of Caesar: You show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d like hounds, And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Caesar’s feet; Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind Struck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers!

Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself. This tongue had not offended so today, If Cassius might have rul’d.

Come, come, the cause. If arguing makes us sweat, The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look, I draw a sword against conspirators. When think you that the sword goes up again? Never, till Caesar’s three and thirty wounds Be well aveng’d; or till another Caesar Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.

Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands, Unless thou bring’st them with thee.

So I hope. I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword.

O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable.

A peevish school-boy, worthless of such honour, Join’d with a masker and a reveller.

Old Cassius still!

Come, Antony; away! Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. If you dare fight today, come to the field; If not, when you have stomachs.

[_Exeunt Octavius, Antony and their Army._]

Why now, blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.

Ho, Lucilius! Hark, a word with you.

My lord?

[_Brutus and Lucilius talk apart._]

What says my General?

Messala, This is my birth-day; as this very day Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala: Be thou my witness that against my will As Pompey was, am I compell’d to set Upon one battle all our liberties. You know that I held Epicurus strong, And his opinion. Now I change my mind, And partly credit things that do presage. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch’d, Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands, Who to Philippi here consorted us. This morning are they fled away and gone, And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kites Fly o’er our heads, and downward look on us, As we were sickly prey: their shadows seem A canopy most fatal, under which Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost.

Believe not so.

I but believe it partly, For I am fresh of spirit, and resolv’d To meet all perils very constantly.

Even so, Lucilius.

Now, most noble Brutus, The gods today stand friendly, that we may, Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age! But, since the affairs of men rest still incertain, Let’s reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is this The very last time we shall speak together: What are you then determined to do?

Even by the rule of that philosophy By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself, I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life, arming myself with patience To stay the providence of some high powers That govern us below.

Then, if we lose this battle, You are contented to be led in triumph Thorough the streets of Rome?

No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end that work the Ides of March begun; And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius. If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made.

For ever and for ever farewell, Brutus. If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed; If not, ’tis true this parting was well made.

Why then, lead on. O, that a man might know The end of this day’s business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. Come, ho! away!

ACT V, SCENE II. The same. The field of battle.

Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala.

Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills Unto the legions on the other side.

[_Loud alarum._]

Let them set on at once; for I perceive But cold demeanor in Octavius’ wing, And sudden push gives them the overthrow. Ride, ride, Messala; let them all come down.

ACT V, SCENE III. Another part of the field.

Alarum. Enter Cassius and Titinius.

O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly! Myself have to mine own turn’d enemy: This ensign here of mine was turning back; I slew the coward, and did take it from him.

O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early, Who, having some advantage on Octavius, Took it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil, Whilst we by Antony are all enclos’d.

Enter Pindarus.

Fly further off, my lord, fly further off; Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord. Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off.

This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius; Are those my tents where I perceive the fire?

They are, my lord.

Titinius, if thou lovest me, Mount thou my horse and hide thy spurs in him, Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops And here again, that I may rest assur’d Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.

I will be here again, even with a thought.

Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill, My sight was ever thick. Regard Titinius, And tell me what thou notest about the field.

[_Pindarus goes up._]

This day I breathed first. Time is come round, And where I did begin, there shall I end. My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news?

[_Above._] O my lord!

What news?

[_Above._] Titinius is enclosed round about With horsemen, that make to him on the spur, Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. Now, Titinius! Now some light. O, he lights too. He’s ta’en!

And, hark! they shout for joy.

Come down; behold no more. O, coward that I am, to live so long, To see my best friend ta’en before my face!

[_Pindarus descends._]

Come hither, sirrah. In Parthia did I take thee prisoner; And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, That whatsoever I did bid thee do, Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath. Now be a freeman; and with this good sword, That ran through Caesar’s bowels, search this bosom. Stand not to answer. Here, take thou the hilts; And when my face is cover’d, as ’tis now, Guide thou the sword.—Caesar, thou art reveng’d, Even with the sword that kill’d thee.

So, I am free, yet would not so have been, Durst I have done my will. O Cassius! Far from this country Pindarus shall run, Where never Roman shall take note of him.

Enter Titinius with Messala.

It is but change, Titinius; for Octavius Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power, As Cassius’ legions are by Antony.

These tidings would well comfort Cassius.

Where did you leave him?

All disconsolate, With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill.

Is not that he that lies upon the ground?

He lies not like the living. O my heart!

Is not that he?

No, this was he, Messala, But Cassius is no more. O setting sun, As in thy red rays thou dost sink to night, So in his red blood Cassius’ day is set. The sun of Rome is set. Our day is gone; Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done. Mistrust of my success hath done this deed.

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful Error, Melancholy’s child! Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O Error, soon conceiv’d, Thou never com’st unto a happy birth, But kill’st the mother that engender’d thee!

What, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus?

Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet The noble Brutus, thrusting this report Into his ears. I may say thrusting it; For piercing steel and darts envenomed Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus As tidings of this sight.

Hie you, Messala, And I will seek for Pindarus the while.

[_Exit Messala._]

Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius? Did I not meet thy friends? And did not they Put on my brows this wreath of victory, And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts? Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything! But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow; Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace, And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. By your leave, gods. This is a Roman’s part. Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart.

Alarum. Enter Brutus, Messala, young Cato, Strato, Volumnius and Lucilius.

Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie?

Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.

Titinius’ face is upward.

He is slain.

O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails.

[_Low alarums._]

Brave Titinius! Look whether he have not crown’d dead Cassius!

Are yet two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! It is impossible that ever Rome Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. Come therefore, and to Thassos send his body. His funerals shall not be in our camp, Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come; And come, young Cato; let us to the field. Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on. ’Tis three o’clock; and Romans, yet ere night We shall try fortune in a second fight.

ACT V, SCENE IV. Another part of the field.

Alarum. Enter fighting soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, Messala, young Cato, Lucilius, Flavius and others.

Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads!

What bastard doth not? Who will go with me? I will proclaim my name about the field. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!

[_Charges the enemy._]

And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; Brutus, my country’s friend; know me for Brutus!

[_Exit, charging the enemy. Cato is overpowered, and falls._]

O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius, And mayst be honour’d, being Cato’s son.

FIRST SOLDIER.

Yield, or thou diest.

Only I yield to die: There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight;

[_Offering money_]

Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death.

FIRST SOLDIER.

We must not. A noble prisoner!

SECOND SOLDIER.

Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta’en.

FIRST SOLDIER.

I’ll tell the news. Here comes the General.

Enter Antony.

Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta’en, my lord.

Where is he?

Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough. I dare assure thee that no enemy Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus. The gods defend him from so great a shame! When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, like himself.

This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you, A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe, Give him all kindness. I had rather have Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, And see whether Brutus be alive or dead; And bring us word unto Octavius’ tent How everything is chanc’d.

ACT V, SCENE V. Another part of the field.

Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato and Volumnius.

Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.

Statilius show’d the torch-light; but, my lord, He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain.

Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word; It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.

What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world.

Peace then, no words.

I’ll rather kill myself.

Hark thee, Dardanius.

[_Whispers him._]

Shall I do such a deed?

O Dardanius!

O Clitus!

What ill request did Brutus make to thee?

To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.

Now is that noble vessel full of grief, That it runs over even at his eyes.

Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word.

What says my lord?

Why, this, Volumnius: The ghost of Caesar hath appear’d to me Two several times by night; at Sardis once, And this last night here in Philippi fields. I know my hour is come.

Not so, my lord.

Nay I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes; Our enemies have beat us to the pit.

[_Low alarums._]

It is more worthy to leap in ourselves Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, Thou know’st that we two went to school together; Even for that our love of old, I pr’ythee Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it.

That’s not an office for a friend, my lord.

[_Alarums still._]

Fly, fly, my lord! there is no tarrying here.

Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee too, Strato.—Countrymen, My heart doth joy, that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile conquest shall attain unto. So fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongue Hath almost ended his life’s history. Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest, That have but labour’d to attain this hour.

[_Alarums. Cry within, “Fly, fly, fly!”._]

Fly, my lord, fly!

Hence! I will follow.

[_Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius and Volumnius._]

I pr’ythee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it. Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?

Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord.

Farewell, good Strato.—Caesar, now be still: I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.

[_He runs on his sword, and dies._]

Alarum. Retreat. Enter Antony, Octavius, Messala, Lucilius and the Army.

What man is that?

My master’s man. Strato, where is thy master?

Free from the bondage you are in, Messala. The conquerors can but make a fire of him; For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honour by his death.

So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus, That thou hast prov’d Lucilius’ saying true.

All that serv’d Brutus, I will entertain them. Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?

Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you.

Do so, good Messala.

How died my master, Strato?

I held the sword, and he did run on it.

Octavius, then take him to follow thee, That did the latest service to my master.

This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he, Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, “This was a man!”

According to his virtue let us use him With all respect and rites of burial. Within my tent his bones tonight shall lie, Most like a soldier, order’d honourably. So call the field to rest, and let’s away, To part the glories of this happy day.

Contents — 31 sections

1. ACT I
2. ACT II
3. ACT III
4. ACT IV
5. ACT V
6. ACT I
7. ACT I, SCENE II. A Hall in the Earl of Gloucester’s Castle
8. ACT I, SCENE III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace
9. ACT I, SCENE IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace
10. ACT I, SCENE V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace
11. ACT II
12. ACT II, SCENE II. Before Gloucester’s Castle
13. ACT II, SCENE III. The open Country
14. ACT II, SCENE IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle; Kent in the stocks
15. ACT III
16. ACT III, SCENE II. Another part of the heath
17. ACT III, SCENE III. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle
18. ACT III, SCENE IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel
19. ACT III, SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle
20. ACT III, SCENE VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle
21. ACT III, SCENE VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle
22. ACT IV
23. ACT IV, SCENE II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace
24. ACT IV, SCENE III. The French camp near Dover
25. ACT IV, SCENE IV. The French camp. A Tent
26. ACT IV, SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle
27. ACT IV, SCENE VI. The country near Dover
28. ACT IV, SCENE VII. A Tent in the French Camp
29. ACT V
30. ACT V, SCENE II. A field between the two Camps
31. ACT V, SCENE III. The British Camp near Dover

ACT I

Scene I. A Room of State in King Lear’s Palace Scene II. A Hall in the Earl of Gloucester’s Castle Scene III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace Scene IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace Scene V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace

ACT II

Scene I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester Scene II. Before Gloucester’s Castle Scene III. The open Country Scene IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle

ACT III

Scene I. A Heath Scene II. Another part of the heath Scene III. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Scene IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel Scene V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Scene VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle Scene VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle

ACT IV

Scene I. The heath Scene II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace Scene III. The French camp near Dover Scene IV. The French camp. A Tent Scene V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Scene VI. The country near Dover Scene VII. A Tent in the French Camp

ACT V

Scene I. The Camp of the British Forces near Dover Scene II. A field between the two Camps Scene III. The British Camp near Dover

Dramatis Personæ

LEAR, King of Britain. GONERIL, eldest daughter to Lear. REGAN, second daughter to Lear. CORDELIA, youngest daughter to Lear. DUKE of ALBANY, married to Goneril. DUKE of CORNWALL, married to Regan. KING of FRANCE. DUKE of BURGUNDY. EARL of GLOUCESTER. EDGAR, elder son to Gloucester. EDMUND, younger bastard son to Gloucester. EARL of KENT.

OSWALD, steward to Goneril. CURAN, a Courtier. OLD MAN, Tenant to Gloucester. Physician. An Officer employed by Edmund. Gentleman, attendant on Cordelia. A Herald. Servants to Cornwall.

Knights attending on the King, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers and Attendants.

SCENE: Britain

ACT I

SCENE I. A Room of State in King Lear’s Palace

Enter Kent, Gloucester and Edmund.

I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.

It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for qualities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.

Is not this your son, my lord?

His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have so often blush’d to acknowledge him that now I am braz’d to’t.

I cannot conceive you.

Sir, this young fellow’s mother could; whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?

I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.

But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came something saucily to the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?

No, my lord.

My Lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend.

My services to your lordship.

I must love you, and sue to know you better.

Sir, I shall study deserving.

He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The King is coming.

[_Sennet within._]

Enter Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia and Attendants.

Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.

I shall, my lord.

[_Exeunt Gloucester and Edmund._]

Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know that we have divided In three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age; Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburden’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daughters,— Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state,— Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge.—Goneril, Our eldest born, speak first.

Sir, I love you more than word can wield the matter; Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valu’d, rich or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found; A love that makes breath poor and speech unable; Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

[_Aside._] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.

Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue Be this perpetual.—What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife of Cornwall? Speak.

Sir, I am made of the self mettle as my sister, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And find I am alone felicitate In your dear highness’ love.

[_Aside._] Then poor Cordelia, And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s More ponderous than my tongue.

To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom; No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr’d on Goneril.—Now, our joy, Although the last and least; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

Nothing, my lord.

Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.

Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty According to my bond; no more nor less.

How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes.

Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me: I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all.

But goes thy heart with this?

Ay, my good lord.

So young, and so untender?

So young, my lord, and true.

Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night; By all the operation of the orbs, From whom we do exist and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and reliev’d, As thou my sometime daughter.

Good my liege,—

Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. [_To Cordelia._] Hence and avoid my sight! So be my grave my peace, as here I give Her father’s heart from her! Call France. Who stirs? Call Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters’ dowers digest this third: Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly with my power, Pre-eminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights, By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain The name, and all the addition to a king; the sway, Revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm, This coronet part between you. [_Giving the crown._]

Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour’d as my king, Lov’d as my father, as my master follow’d, As my great patron thought on in my prayers.—

The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft.

Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man? Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak, When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy state; And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgement, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least; Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sounds Reverb no hollowness.

Kent, on thy life, no more.

My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies; ne’er fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive.

Out of my sight!

See better, Lear; and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye.

Now, by Apollo,—

Now by Apollo, King, Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.

O vassal! Miscreant!

[_Laying his hand on his sword._]

ALBANY and CORNWALL. Dear sir, forbear!

Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I’ll tell thee thou dost evil.

Hear me, recreant! on thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vows, Which we durst never yet, and with strain’d pride To come betwixt our sentences and our power, Which nor our nature, nor our place can bear, Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision, To shield thee from disasters of the world; And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom: if, on the next day following, Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter, This shall not be revok’d.

Fare thee well, King: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [_To Cordelia._] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think’st and hast most rightly said! [_To Goneril and Regan._] And your large speeches may your deeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; He’ll shape his old course in a country new.

Flourish. Re-enter Gloucester, with France, Burgundy and Attendants.

Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivall’d for our daughter: what in the least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love?

Most royal majesty, I crave no more than hath your highness offer’d, Nor will you tender less.

Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands: If aught within that little-seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d, And nothing more, may fitly like your grace, She’s there, and she is yours.

I know no answer.

Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath, Take her or leave her?

Pardon me, royal sir; Election makes not up in such conditions.

Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me, I tell you all her wealth. [_To France_] For you, great king, I would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you T’avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom nature is asham’d Almost t’acknowledge hers.

This is most strange, That she, who even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection Fall into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should never plant in me.

I yet beseech your majesty, If for I want that glib and oily art To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend, I’ll do’t before I speak,—that you make known It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonour’d step, That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for which I am richer, A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking.

Better thou hadst Not been born than not to have pleas’d me better.

Is it but this?—a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do? My lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love’s not love When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.

Royal King, Give but that portion which yourself propos’d, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy.

Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.

I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband.

Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respects of fortunes are his love, I shall not be his wife.

Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice forsaken; and most lov’d, despis’d! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon: Be it lawful, I take up what’s cast away. Gods, gods! ’Tis strange that from their cold’st neglect My love should kindle to inflam’d respect. Thy dowerless daughter, King, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy Can buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind: Thou losest here, a better where to find.

Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy.

[_Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester and Attendants._]

Bid farewell to your sisters.

The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are; And like a sister am most loath to call Your faults as they are nam’d. Love well our father: To your professed bosoms I commit him: But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place. So farewell to you both.

Prescribe not us our duties.

Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you At fortune’s alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides: Who covers faults, at last shame derides. Well may you prosper.

Come, my fair Cordelia.

[_Exeunt France and Cordelia._]

Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence tonight.

That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.

You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgement he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.

’Tis the infirmity of his age: yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look from his age to receive not alone the imperfections of long-engrafted condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.

Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.

There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you let us hit together: if our father carry authority with such disposition as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.

We shall further think of it.

We must do something, and i’ th’ heat.

ACT I, SCENE II. A Hall in the Earl of Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Edmund with a letter.

Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me? For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of a brother? Why bastard? Wherefore base? When my dimensions are as well compact, My mind as generous, and my shape as true As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us With base? With baseness? bastardy? Base, base? Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take More composition and fierce quality Than doth within a dull stale tired bed Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops Got ’tween asleep and wake? Well then, Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land: Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund As to the legitimate: fine word: legitimate! Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed, And my invention thrive, Edmund the base Shall top the legitimate. I grow, I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

Enter Gloucester.

Kent banish’d thus! and France in choler parted! And the King gone tonight! Prescrib’d his pow’r! Confin’d to exhibition! All this done Upon the gad!—Edmund, how now! What news?

So please your lordship, none.

[_Putting up the letter._]

Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter?

I know no news, my lord.

What paper were you reading?

Nothing, my lord.

No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let’s see. Come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles.

I beseech you, sir, pardon me. It is a letter from my brother that I have not all o’er-read; and for so much as I have perus’d, I find it not fit for your o’er-looking.

Give me the letter, sir.

I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame.

Let’s see, let’s see!

I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote this but as an essay, or taste of my virtue.

[_Reads._] ‘This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny; who sways not as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother EDGAR.’ Hum! Conspiracy? ‘Sleep till I wake him, you should enjoy half his revenue.’—My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? A heart and brain to breed it in? When came this to you? Who brought it?

It was not brought me, my lord, there’s the cunning of it. I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet.

You know the character to be your brother’s?

If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his; but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not.

It is his.

It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in the contents.

Has he never before sounded you in this business?

Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declined, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.

O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him; I’ll apprehend him. Abominable villain, Where is he?

I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you should run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other pretence of danger.

Think you so?

If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction, and that without any further delay than this very evening.

He cannot be such a monster.

Nor is not, sure.

To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray you: frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself to be in a due resolution.

I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal.

These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us: though the wisdom of Nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked ’twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there’s son against father: the King falls from bias of nature; there’s father against child. We have seen the best of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it carefully.—And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished! his offence, honesty! ’Tis strange.

This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star. My father compounded with my mother under the dragon’s tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and lecherous. Fut! I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.

Enter Edgar.

Pat! he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’Bedlam.—O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la, mi.

How now, brother Edmund, what serious contemplation are you in?

I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses.

Do you busy yourself with that?

I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against King and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what.

How long have you been a sectary astronomical?

Come, come! when saw you my father last?

The night gone by.

Spake you with him?

Ay, two hours together.

Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him, by word nor countenance?

None at all.

Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him: and at my entreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure; which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay.

Some villain hath done me wrong.

That’s my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak: pray ye, go; there’s my key. If you do stir abroad, go armed.

Armed, brother?

Brother, I advise you to the best; I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward you: I have told you what I have seen and heard. But faintly; nothing like the image and horror of it: pray you, away!

Shall I hear from you anon?

I do serve you in this business.

[_Exit Edgar._]

A credulous father! and a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty My practices ride easy! I see the business. Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit; All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.

ACT I, SCENE III. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace

Enter Goneril and Oswald.

Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

Ay, madam.

By day and night, he wrongs me; every hour He flashes into one gross crime or other, That sets us all at odds; I’ll not endure it: His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us On every trifle. When he returns from hunting, I will not speak with him; say I am sick. If you come slack of former services, You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.

[_Horns within._]

He’s coming, madam; I hear him.

Put on what weary negligence you please, You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question: If he distaste it, let him to our sister, Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one, Not to be overruled. Idle old man, That still would manage those authorities That he hath given away! Now, by my life, Old fools are babes again; and must be us’d With checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus’d. Remember what I have said.

Very well, madam.

And let his knights have colder looks among you; What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so; I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall, That I may speak. I’ll write straight to my sister To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner.

ACT I, SCENE IV. A Hall in Albany’s Palace

Enter Kent, disguised.

If but as well I other accents borrow, That can my speech defuse, my good intent May carry through itself to that full issue For which I rais’d my likeness. Now, banish’d Kent, If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d, So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st, Shall find thee full of labours.

Horns within. Enter King Lear, Knights and Attendants.

Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready.

[_Exit an Attendant._]

How now! what art thou?

A man, sir.

What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?

I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise and says little; to fear judgement; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.

What art thou?

A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King.

If thou be’st as poor for a subject as he’s for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?

Who wouldst thou serve?

Dost thou know me, fellow?

No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.

What’s that?

What services canst thou do?

I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me is diligence.

How old art thou?

Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing; nor so old to dote on her for anything: I have years on my back forty-eight.

Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where’s my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither.

[_Exit an Attendant._]

Enter Oswald.

You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?

So please you,—

What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back.

[_Exit a Knight._]

Where’s my fool? Ho, I think the world’s asleep.

Re-enter Knight.

How now! where’s that mongrel?

He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.

Why came not the slave back to me when I called him?

Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not.

He would not?

My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgement your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont; there’s a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the Duke himself also, and your daughter.

Ha! say’st thou so?

I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged.

Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness: I will look further into’t. But where’s my fool? I have not seen him this two days.

Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away.

No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her.

[_Exit Attendant._]

Go you, call hither my fool.

[_Exit another Attendant._]

Re-enter Oswald.

O, you, sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir?

My lady’s father.

My lady’s father! my lord’s knave: you whoreson dog! you slave! you cur!

I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.

Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?

[_Striking him._]

I’ll not be struck, my lord.

Nor tripp’d neither, you base football player.

[_Tripping up his heels._]

I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv’st me, and I’ll love thee.

Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you differences: away, away! If you will measure your lubber’s length again, tarry; but away! go to; have you wisdom? So.

[_Pushes Oswald out._]

Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy service.

[_Giving Kent money._]

Enter Fool.

Let me hire him too; here’s my coxcomb.

[_Giving Kent his cap._]

How now, my pretty knave, how dost thou?

Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.

Why, fool?

Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of favour. Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou’lt catch cold shortly: there, take my coxcomb: why, this fellow has banish’d two on’s daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will; if thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb. How now, nuncle! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!

Why, my boy?

If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my coxcombs myself. There’s mine; beg another of thy daughters.

Take heed, sirrah, the whip.

Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out, when the Lady Brach may stand by the fire and stink.

A pestilent gall to me!

Sirrah, I’ll teach thee a speech.

Mark it, nuncle: Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door, And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score.

This is nothing, fool.

Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer, you gave me nothing for’t. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?

Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.

[_to Kent._] Prithee tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to: he will not believe a fool.

A bitter fool.

Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet one?

No, lad; teach me.

That lord that counsell’d thee To give away thy land, Come place him here by me, Do thou for him stand. The sweet and bitter fool Will presently appear; The one in motley here, The other found out there.

Dost thou call me fool, boy?

All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with.

This is not altogether fool, my lord.

No, faith; lords and great men will not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part on’t and ladies too, they will not let me have all the fool to myself; they’ll be snatching. Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns.

What two crowns shall they be?

Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gav’st thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so. [_Singing._] Fools had ne’er less grace in a year; For wise men are grown foppish, And know not how their wits to wear, Their manners are so apish.

When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?

I have used it, nuncle, e’er since thou mad’st thy daughters thy mothers; for when thou gav’st them the rod, and put’st down thine own breeches, [_Singing._] Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung, That such a king should play bo-peep, And go the fools among. Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie; I would fain learn to lie.

An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped.

I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o’thing than a fool: and yet I would not be thee, nuncle: thou hast pared thy wit o’both sides, and left nothing i’ the middle: here comes one o’ the parings.

Enter Goneril.

How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ the frown.

Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure: I am better than thou art now. I am a fool, thou art nothing. [_To Goneril._] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum, He that keeps nor crust nor crum, Weary of all, shall want some. [_Pointing to Lear_.] That’s a shealed peascod.

Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d fool, But other of your insolent retinue Do hourly carp and quarrel; breaking forth In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, I had thought, by making this well known unto you, To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful, By what yourself too late have spoke and done, That you protect this course, and put it on By your allowance; which if you should, the fault Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, Might in their working do you that offence Which else were shame, that then necessity Will call discreet proceeding.

For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long That it’s had it head bit off by it young. So out went the candle, and we were left darkling.

Are you our daughter?

Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom, Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away These dispositions, which of late transform you From what you rightly are.

May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee!

Doth any here know me? This is not Lear; Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his discernings Are lethargied. Ha! waking? ’Tis not so! Who is it that can tell me who I am?

Lear’s shadow.

I would learn that; for by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters.

Which they will make an obedient father.

Your name, fair gentlewoman?

This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright: As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d and bold That this our court, infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust Makes it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak For instant remedy. Be, then, desir’d By her that else will take the thing she begs A little to disquantity your train; And the remainder that shall still depend, To be such men as may besort your age, Which know themselves, and you.

Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses; call my train together. Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee: Yet have I left a daughter.

You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble Make servants of their betters.

Enter Albany.

Woe that too late repents!— [_To Albany._] O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir.—Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show’st thee in a child Than the sea-monster!

Pray, sir, be patient.

[_to Goneril._] Detested kite, thou liest. My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of duty know; And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name. O most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature From the fix’d place; drew from my heart all love, And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! [_Striking his head._] Beat at this gate that let thy folly in And thy dear judgement out! Go, go, my people.

My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath moved you.

It may be so, my lord. Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful! Into her womb convey sterility! Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth; With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks; Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits To laughter and contempt; that she may feel How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child! Away, away!

Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?

Never afflict yourself to know more of it; But let his disposition have that scope That dotage gives it.

Re-enter Lear.

What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight?

What’s the matter, sir?

I’ll tell thee. [_To Goneril._] Life and death! I am asham’d That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th’untented woundings of a father’s curse Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out, And cast you with the waters that you lose To temper clay. Ha! Let it be so. I have another daughter, Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable: When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails She’ll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I’ll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever.

[_Exeunt Lear, Kent and Attendants._]

Do you mark that?

I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you,—

Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho! [_To the Fool._] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master.

Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and take the fool with thee. A fox when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter; So the fool follows after.

This man hath had good counsel.—A hundred knights! ’Tis politic and safe to let him keep At point a hundred knights: yes, that on every dream, Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, He may enguard his dotage with their powers, And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say!

Well, you may fear too far.

Safer than trust too far: Let me still take away the harms I fear, Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart. What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister: If she sustain him and his hundred knights, When I have show’d th’unfitness,—

Re-enter Oswald.

How now, Oswald! What, have you writ that letter to my sister?

Ay, madam.

Take you some company, and away to horse: Inform her full of my particular fear; And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it more. Get you gone; And hasten your return.

[_Exit Oswald._]

No, no, my lord! This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon, You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom Than prais’d for harmful mildness.

How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell: Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

Nay then,—

Well, well; the event.

ACT I, SCENE V. Court before the Duke of Albany’s Palace

Enter Lear, Kent and Fool.

Go you before to Gloucester with these letters: acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you.

I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.

If a man’s brains were in’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes?

Ay, boy.

Then I prithee be merry; thy wit shall not go slipshod.

Ha, ha, ha!

Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly, for though she’s as like this as a crab’s like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell.

What canst tell, boy?

She’ll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’the middle on’s face?

Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.

I did her wrong.

Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.

Why, to put’s head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.

I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready?

Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.

Because they are not eight?

Yes indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.

To tak’t again perforce!—Monster ingratitude!

If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’d have thee beaten for being old before thy time.

How’s that?

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

Enter Gentleman.

How now? are the horses ready?

Ready, my lord.

Come, boy.

She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.

ACT II

SCENE I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester

Enter Edmund and Curan, meeting.

Save thee, Curan.

And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be here with him this night.

How comes that?

Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?

Not I: pray you, what are they?

Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the two dukes of Cornwall and Albany?

Not a word.

You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir.

The Duke be here tonight? The better! best! This weaves itself perforce into my business. My father hath set guard to take my brother; And I have one thing, of a queasy question, Which I must act. Briefness and fortune work! Brother, a word, descend, brother, I say!

Enter Edgar.

My father watches: O sir, fly this place; Intelligence is given where you are hid; You have now the good advantage of the night. Have you not spoken ’gainst the Duke of Cornwall? He’s coming hither; now, i’ the night, i’ the haste, And Regan with him: have you nothing said Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany? Advise yourself.

I am sure on’t, not a word.

I hear my father coming:—pardon me; In cunning I must draw my sword upon you: Draw: seem to defend yourself: now quit you well. Yield: come before my father. Light, ho, here! Fly, brother. Torches, torches!—So farewell.

[_Exit Edgar._]

Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeavour: [_Wounds his arm._] I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport. Father, father! Stop, stop! No help?

Enter Gloucester and Servants with torches.

Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?

Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand auspicious mistress.

But where is he?

Look, sir, I bleed.

Where is the villain, Edmund?

Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could,—

Pursue him, ho! Go after.

[_Exeunt Servants._]

—By no means what?

Persuade me to the murder of your lordship; But that I told him the revenging gods ’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine, Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion With his prepared sword, he charges home My unprovided body, latch’d mine arm; But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits, Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to th’encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled.

Let him fly far; Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; And found—dispatch’d. The noble Duke my master, My worthy arch and patron, comes tonight: By his authority I will proclaim it, That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous coward to the stake; He that conceals him, death.

When I dissuaded him from his intent, And found him pight to do it, with curst speech I threaten’d to discover him: he replied, ‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think, If I would stand against thee, would the reposal Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce My very character, I’d turn it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice: And thou must make a dullard of the world, If they not thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potential spurs To make thee seek it.

O strange and fast’ned villain! Would he deny his letter, said he? I never got him.

[_Tucket within._]

Hark, the Duke’s trumpets! I know not why he comes. All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not scape; The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom May have due note of him; and of my land, Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means To make thee capable.

Enter Cornwall, Regan and Attendants.

How now, my noble friend! since I came hither, Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news.

If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th’offender. How dost, my lord?

O madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d!

What, did my father’s godson seek your life? He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar?

O lady, lady, shame would have it hid!

Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father?

I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad.

Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

No marvel then though he were ill affected: ’Tis they have put him on the old man’s death, To have the expense and waste of his revenues. I have this present evening from my sister Been well inform’d of them; and with such cautions That if they come to sojourn at my house, I’ll not be there.

Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office.

It was my duty, sir.

He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.

Is he pursued?

Ay, my good lord.

If he be taken, he shall never more Be fear’d of doing harm: make your own purpose, How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund, Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant So much commend itself, you shall be ours: Natures of such deep trust we shall much need; You we first seize on.

I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else.

For him I thank your grace.

You know not why we came to visit you?

Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d night: Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise, Wherein we must have use of your advice. Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, Of differences, which I best thought it fit To answer from our home; the several messengers From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom; and bestow Your needful counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use.

I serve you, madam: Your graces are right welcome.

[_Exeunt. Flourish._]

ACT II, SCENE II. Before Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Kent and Oswald, severally.

Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?

Where may we set our horses?

I’ the mire.

Prithee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.

I love thee not.

Why then, I care not for thee.

If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Fellow, I know thee.

What dost thou know me for?

A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue; one trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.

Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that’s neither known of thee nor knows thee?

What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw!

[_Drawing his sword._]

Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

Draw, you rascal: you come with letters against the King; and take vanity the puppet’s part against the royalty of her father: draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks:—draw, you rascal; come your ways!

Help, ho! murder! help!

Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike!

[_Beating him._]

Help, ho! murder! murder!

Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants.

How now! What’s the matter? Part!

With you, goodman boy, if you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.

Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?

Keep peace, upon your lives, he dies that strikes again. What is the matter?

The messengers from our sister and the King.

What is your difference? Speak.

I am scarce in breath, my lord.

No marvel, you have so bestirr’d your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee.

Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a man?

Ay, a tailor, sir: a stonecutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two years at the trade.

Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his grey beard,—

Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you’ll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard, you wagtail?

Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Why art thou angry?

That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain Which are too intrince t’unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel; Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing naught, like dogs, but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

What, art thou mad, old fellow?

How fell you out? Say that.

No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave.

Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?

His countenance likes me not.

No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers.

Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain: I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant.

This is some fellow Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he, An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain. These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely.

Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th’allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus’ front,—

What mean’st by this?

To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which, for my part, I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to’t.

What was the offence you gave him?

I never gave him any: It pleas’d the King his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure, Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d And put upon him such a deal of man, That worthied him, got praises of the King For him attempting who was self-subdu’d; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Drew on me here again.

None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool.

Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart, We’ll teach you.

Sir, I am too old to learn: Call not your stocks for me: I serve the King; On whose employment I was sent to you: You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger.

Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon.

Till noon! Till night, my lord; and all night too!

Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog, You should not use me so.

Sir, being his knave, I will.

[_Stocks brought out._]

This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks!

Let me beseech your grace not to do so: His fault is much, and the good King his master Will check him for’t: your purpos’d low correction Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches For pilferings and most common trespasses, Are punish’d with. The King must take it ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrained.

I’ll answer that.

My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put in his legs.

[_Kent is put in the stocks._]

Come, my good lord, away.

[_Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent._]

I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the Duke’s pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d; I’ll entreat for thee.

Pray do not, sir: I have watch’d, and travell’d hard; Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle. A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels: Give you good morrow!

The Duke’s to blame in this: ’twill be ill taken.

Good King, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st To the warm sun. Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But misery. I know ’tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform’d Of my obscured course. And shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night: smile once more, turn thy wheel!

[_He sleeps._]

ACT II, SCENE III. The open Country

Enter Edgar.

I heard myself proclaim’d, And by the happy hollow of a tree Escap’d the hunt. No port is free, no place That guard and most unusual vigilance Does not attend my taking. While I may scape I will preserve myself: and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury in contempt of man, Brought near to beast: my face I’ll grime with filth, Blanket my loins; elf all my hair in knots, And with presented nakedness outface The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygod! poor Tom, That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.

ACT II, SCENE IV. Before Gloucester’s Castle; Kent in the stocks

Enter Lear, Fool and Gentleman.

’Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger.

As I learn’d, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove.

Hail to thee, noble master!

Ha! Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?

No, my lord.

Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads; dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is overlusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.

What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here?

It is both he and she, Your son and daughter.

No, I say.

I say, yea.

No, no; they would not.

Yes, they have.

By Jupiter, I swear no.

By Juno, I swear ay.

They durst not do’t. They could not, would not do’t; ’tis worse than murder, To do upon respect such violent outrage: Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us.

My lord, when at their home I did commend your highness’ letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place that show’d My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress salutations; Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they read; on those contents, They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse; Commanded me to follow and attend The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks: And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome I perceiv’d had poison’d mine, Being the very fellow which of late Display’d so saucily against your highness, Having more man than wit about me, drew; He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries. Your son and daughter found this trespass worth The shame which here it suffers.

Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind, But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne’er turns the key to th’ poor. But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.

O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! _Hysterica passio_, down, thou climbing sorrow, Thy element’s below! Where is this daughter?

With the earl, sir, here within.

Follow me not; stay here.

Made you no more offence but what you speak of?

None. How chance the King comes with so small a number?

An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.

Why, fool?

We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it. That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain, And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly: The knave turns fool that runs away; The fool no knave perdy.

Where learn’d you this, fool?

Not i’ the stocks, fool.

Enter Lear and Gloucester.

Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary? They have travell’d all the night? Mere fetches; The images of revolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer.

My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke; How unremovable and fix’d he is In his own course.

Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.

Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?

Ay, my good lord.

The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands, tends, service, Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that— No, but not yet: maybe he is not well: Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound: we are not ourselves When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind To suffer with the body: I’ll forbear; And am fallen out with my more headier will, To take the indispos’d and sickly fit For the sound man. [_Looking on Kent._] Death on my state! Wherefore Should he sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the Duke and her Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the Duke and’s wife I’d speak with them, Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber door I’ll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death.

I would have all well betwixt you.

O me, my heart, my rising heart! But down!

Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put ’em i’ the paste alive; she knapped ’em o’ the coxcombs with a stick and cried ‘Down, wantons, down!’ ’Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse buttered his hay.

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants.

Good morrow to you both.

Hail to your grace!

[_Kent here set at liberty._]

I am glad to see your highness.

Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb, Sepulchring an adultress. [_To Kent_] O, are you free? Some other time for that.—Beloved Regan, Thy sister’s naught: O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here.

[_Points to his heart._]

I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe With how deprav’d a quality—O Regan!

I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty.

Say, how is that?

I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance She have restrain’d the riots of your followers, ’Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame.

My curses on her.

O, sir, you are old; Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine: you should be rul’d and led By some discretion, that discerns your state Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you, That to our sister you do make return; Say you have wrong’d her, sir.

Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house? ‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old; [_Kneeling._] Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’

Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks: Return you to my sister.

[_Rising._] Never, Regan: She hath abated me of half my train; Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness!

Fie, sir, fie!

You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun, To fall and blast her pride!

O the blest gods! So will you wish on me when the rash mood is on.

No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse. Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o’er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine Do comfort, and not burn. ’Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my coming in. Thou better know’st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude; Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow’d.

Good sir, to the purpose.

Who put my man i’ the stocks?

[_Tucket within._]

What trumpet’s that?

I know’t, my sister’s: this approves her letter, That she would soon be here.

Enter Oswald.

Is your lady come?

This is a slave, whose easy borrowed pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from my sight!

What means your grace?

Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on’t. Who comes here? O heavens!

Enter Goneril.

If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if yourselves are old, Make it your cause; send down, and take my part! [_To Goneril._] Art not asham’d to look upon this beard? O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended? All’s not offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so.

O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the stocks?

I set him there, sir: but his own disorders Deserv’d much less advancement.

You? Did you?

I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If, till the expiration of your month, You will return and sojourn with my sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me: I am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment.

Return to her, and fifty men dismiss’d? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o’ the air; To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, Necessity’s sharp pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her? Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom.

[_Pointing to Oswald._]

At your choice, sir.

I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad: I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell: We’ll no more meet, no more see one another. But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil, A plague sore, or embossed carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee; Let shame come when it will, I do not call it: I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove: Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure: I can be patient; I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights.

Not altogether so, I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister; For those that mingle reason with your passion Must be content to think you old, and so— But she knows what she does.

Is this well spoken?

I dare avouch it, sir: what, fifty followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more? Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger Speak ’gainst so great a number? How in one house Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? ’Tis hard; almost impossible.

Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d to slack ye, We could control them. If you will come to me,— For now I spy a danger,—I entreat you To bring but five-and-twenty: to no more Will I give place or notice.

I gave you all,—

And in good time you gave it.

Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty, Regan, said you so?

And speak’t again my lord; no more with me.

Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d When others are more wicked; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [_To Goneril._] I’ll go with thee: Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love.

Hear me, my lord: What need you five-and-twenty? Ten? Or five? To follow in a house where twice so many Have a command to tend you?

What need one?

O, reason not the need: our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous: Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man’s life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,— You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both! If it be you that stirs these daughters’ hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women’s weapons, water-drops, Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural hags, I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall,—I will do such things,— What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep; No, I’ll not weep:— [_Storm and tempest._] I have full cause of weeping; but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I’ll weep.—O fool, I shall go mad!

[_Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent and Fool._]

Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.

This house is little: the old man and his people Cannot be well bestow’d.

’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly.

For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly, But not one follower.

So am I purpos’d. Where is my lord of Gloucester?

Enter Gloucester.

Followed the old man forth, he is return’d.

The King is in high rage.

Whither is he going?

He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.

’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.

My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about There’s scarce a bush.

O, sir, to wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors. He is attended with a desperate train, And what they may incense him to, being apt To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear.

Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.

ACT III

SCENE I. A Heath

A storm with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, severally.

Who’s there, besides foul weather?

One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

I know you. Where’s the King?

Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all.

But who is with him?

None but the fool, who labours to out-jest His heart-struck injuries.

Sir, I do know you; And dare, upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division, Although as yet the face of it be cover’d With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have, as who have not, that their great stars Throne’d and set high; servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes; Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind King; or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings;— But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports, and are at point To show their open banner.—Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding; And from some knowledge and assurance Offer this office to you.

I will talk further with you.

No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia, As fear not but you shall, show her this ring; And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go seek the King.

Give me your hand: have you no more to say?

Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King, in which your pain That way, I’ll this; he that first lights on him Holla the other.

ACT III, SCENE II. Another part of the heath

Storm continues. Enter Lear and Fool.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man!

O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools.

Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul!

He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

Enter Kent.

Who’s there?

Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool.

Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never Remember to have heard. Man’s nature cannot carry Th’affliction, nor the fear.

Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o’er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp’d of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to pieces shake That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practis’d on man’s life: close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn’d against than sinning.

Alack, bareheaded! Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest: Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house,— More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d; Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in,—return, and force Their scanted courtesy.

My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That’s sorry yet for thee.

[_Singing._] He that has and a little tiny wit, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day.

True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.

[_Exeunt Lear and Kent._]

This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles are their tailors’ tutors; No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors; When every case in law is right; No squire in debt, nor no poor knight; When slanders do not live in tongues; Nor cut-purses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i’ the field; And bawds and whores do churches build, Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion: Then comes the time, who lives to see’t, That going shall be us’d with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.

ACT III, SCENE III. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Gloucester and Edmund.

Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him.

Most savage and unnatural!

Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the Dukes, and a worse matter than that: I have received a letter this night;—’tis dangerous to be spoken;—I have locked the letter in my closet: these injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed: we must incline to the King. I will look him, and privily relieve him: go you and maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him perceived: if he ask for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the King my old master must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you be careful.

This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know; and of that letter too. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses, no less than all: The younger rises when the old doth fall.

ACT III, SCENE IV. A part of the Heath with a Hovel

Storm continues. Enter Lear, Kent and Fool.

Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter: The tyranny of the open night’s too rough For nature to endure.

Let me alone.

Good my lord, enter here.

Wilt break my heart?

I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.

Thou think’st ’tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee, But where the greater malady is fix’d, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, Thou’dst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When the mind’s free, The body’s delicate: the tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to’t? But I will punish home; No, I will weep no more. In such a night To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure: In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all, O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.

Good my lord, enter here.

Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease: This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in. [_To the Fool._] In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty, Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep.

[_Fool goes in._]

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just.

[_Within._] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!

[_The Fool runs out from the hovel._]

Come not in here, nuncle, here’s a spirit. Help me, help me!

Give me thy hand. Who’s there?

A spirit, a spirit: he says his name’s poor Tom.

What art thou that dost grumble there i’ the straw? Come forth.

Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman.

Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee.

Didst thou give all to thy two daughters? And art thou come to this?

Who gives anything to poor Tom? Whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o’er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s a-cold. O, do, de, do, de, do, de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now, and there,—and there again, and there.

[_Storm continues._]

What, have his daughters brought him to this pass? Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give ’em all?

Nay, he reserv’d a blanket, else we had been all shamed.

Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy daughters!

He hath no daughters, sir.

Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu’d nature To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? Judicious punishment! ’twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters.

Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, Alow, alow, loo loo!

This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.

Take heed o’ th’ foul fiend: obey thy parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet-heart on proud array. Tom’s a-cold.

What hast thou been?

A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served the lust of my mistress’ heart, and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven. One that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it. Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly; and in woman out-paramour’d the Turk. False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender’s book, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: says suum, mun, nonny. Dolphin my boy, boy, sessa! let him trot by.

[_Storm still continues._]

Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here’s three on’s are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here.

[_Tears off his clothes._]

Prithee, nuncle, be contented; ’tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher’s heart, a small spark, all the rest on’s body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire.

This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. Swithold footed thrice the old; He met the nightmare, and her nine-fold; Bid her alight and her troth plight, And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!

How fares your grace?

Enter Gloucester with a torch.

What’s he?

Who’s there? What is’t you seek?

What are you there? Your names?

Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the todpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stocked, punished, and imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, Horse to ride, and weapon to wear. But mice and rats and such small deer, Have been Tom’s food for seven long year. Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin; peace, thou fiend!

What, hath your grace no better company?

The prince of darkness is a gentleman: Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu.

Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile That it doth hate what gets it.

Poor Tom’s a-cold.

Go in with me: my duty cannot suffer T’obey in all your daughters’ hard commands; Though their injunction be to bar my doors, And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, Yet have I ventur’d to come seek you out, And bring you where both fire and food is ready.

First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder?

Good my lord, take his offer; go into the house.

I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study?

How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin.

Let me ask you one word in private.

Importune him once more to go, my lord; His wits begin t’unsettle.

Canst thou blame him? His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man! Thou sayest the King grows mad; I’ll tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself. I had a son, Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my life But lately, very late: I lov’d him, friend, No father his son dearer: true to tell thee,

[_Storm continues._]

The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s this! I do beseech your grace.

O, cry you mercy, sir. Noble philosopher, your company.

Tom’s a-cold.

In, fellow, there, into the hovel; keep thee warm.

Come, let’s in all.

This way, my lord.

With him; I will keep still with my philosopher.

Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.

Take him you on.

Sirrah, come on; go along with us.

Come, good Athenian.

No words, no words, hush.

Child Rowland to the dark tower came, His word was still—Fie, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man.

ACT III, SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Cornwall and Edmund.

I will have my revenge ere I depart his house.

How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of.

I now perceive it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable badness in himself.

How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that this treason were not; or not I the detector!

Go with me to the Duchess.

If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand.

True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension.

[_Aside._] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuff his suspicion more fully. I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood.

I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love.

ACT III, SCENE VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle

Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool and Edgar.

Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be long from you.

All the power of his wits have given way to his impatience:— the gods reward your kindness!

[_Exit Gloucester._]

Frateretto calls me; and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.

Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman.

A king, a king!

No, he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him.

To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hissing in upon ’em.

The foul fiend bites my back.

He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

It shall be done; I will arraign them straight. [_To Edgar._] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer; [_To the Fool._] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes!—

Look, where he stands and glares! Want’st thou eyes at trial, madam? Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me.

Her boat hath a leak, And she must not speak Why she dares not come over to thee.

The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale. Hoppedance cries in Tom’s belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee.

How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz’d; Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?

I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. [_To Edgar._] Thou, robed man of justice, take thy place. [_To the Fool._] And thou, his yokefellow of equity, Bench by his side. [_To Kent._] You are o’ the commission, Sit you too.

Let us deal justly. Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? Thy sheep be in the corn; And for one blast of thy minikin mouth Thy sheep shall take no harm. Purr! the cat is grey.

Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King her father.

Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?

She cannot deny it.

Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.

And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! Arms, arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?

Bless thy five wits!

O pity! Sir, where is the patience now That you so oft have boasted to retain?

[_Aside._] My tears begin to take his part so much They mar my counterfeiting.

The little dogs and all, Trey, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me.

Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs! Be thy mouth or black or white, Tooth that poisons if it bite; Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach or him, Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail, Tom will make them weep and wail; For, with throwing thus my head, Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. Do, de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.

Then let them anatomize Regan; see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [_To Edgar._] You, sir, I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You’ll say they are Persian; but let them be changed.

Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile.

Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains. So, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning.

And I’ll go to bed at noon.

Enter Gloucester.

Come hither, friend; Where is the King my master?

Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone.

Good friend, I prithee, take him in thy arms; I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him; There is a litter ready; lay him in’t And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master; If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, With thine, and all that offer to defend him, Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up; And follow me, that will to some provision Give thee quick conduct.

Oppressed nature sleeps. This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. Come, help to bear thy master; [_To the Fool._] Thou must not stay behind.

Come, come, away!

[_Exeunt Kent, Gloucester and the Fool bearing off Lear._]

When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ the mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind: But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. How light and portable my pain seems now, When that which makes me bend makes the King bow; He childed as I fathered! Tom, away! Mark the high noises; and thyself bewray, When false opinion, whose wrong thoughts defile thee, In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee. What will hap more tonight, safe ’scape the King! Lurk, lurk.

ACT III, SCENE VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund and Servants.

Post speedily to my lord your husband, show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the traitor Gloucester.

[_Exeunt some of the Servants._]

Hang him instantly.

Pluck out his eyes.

Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company: the revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister, farewell, my lord of Gloucester.

Enter Oswald.

How now! Where’s the King?

My lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him hence: Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lord’s dependants, Are gone with him toward Dover: where they boast To have well-armed friends.

Get horses for your mistress.

Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.

Edmund, farewell.

[_Exeunt Goneril, Edmund and Oswald._]

Go seek the traitor Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.

[_Exeunt other Servants._]

Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Who’s there? The traitor?

Enter Gloucester and Servants.

Ingrateful fox! ’tis he.

Bind fast his corky arms.

What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider you are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends.

Bind him, I say.

[_Servants bind him._]

Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!

Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none.

To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find—

[_Regan plucks his beard._]

By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard.

So white, and such a traitor!

Naughty lady, These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host: With robber’s hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?

Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?

Be simple answer’d, for we know the truth.

And what confederacy have you with the traitors, Late footed in the kingdom?

To whose hands have you sent the lunatic King? Speak.

I have a letter guessingly set down, Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos’d.

And false.

Where hast thou sent the King?

To Dover.

Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg’d at peril,—

Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that.

I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.

Wherefore to Dover, sir?

Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare head In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d up, And quench’d the stelled fires; Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that stern time, Thou shouldst have said, ‘Good porter, turn the key.’ All cruels else subscrib’d: but I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children.

See’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot.

[_Gloucester is held down in his chair, while Cornwall plucks out one of his eyes and sets his foot on it._]

He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help!—O cruel! O you gods!

One side will mock another; the other too!

If you see vengeance—

FIRST SERVANT.

Hold your hand, my lord: I have serv’d you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold.

How now, you dog!

FIRST SERVANT.

If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?

My villain?

[_Draws, and runs at him._]

FIRST SERVANT.

Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

[_Draws. They fight. Cornwall is wounded._]

[_To another servant._] Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus?

[_Snatches a sword, comes behind, and stabs him._]

FIRST SERVANT.

O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O!

Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now?

[_Tears out Gloucester’s other eye and throws it on the ground._]

All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act.

Out, treacherous villain! Thou call’st on him that hates thee: it was he That made the overture of thy treasons to us; Who is too good to pity thee.

O my follies! Then Edgar was abus’d. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him!

Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. How is’t, my lord? How look you?

I have receiv’d a hurt: follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace: Untimely comes this hurt: give me your arm.

[_Exit Cornwall, led by Regan; Servants unbind Gloucester and lead him out._]

SECOND SERVANT.

I’ll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good.

THIRD SERVANT.

If she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters.

SECOND SERVANT.

Let’s follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would: his roguish madness Allows itself to anything.

THIRD SERVANT.

Go thou: I’ll fetch some flax and whites of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him!

ACT IV

SCENE I. The heath

Enter Edgar.

Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d, Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear: The lamentable change is from the best; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace; The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts.

Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man.

But who comes here? My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age.

OLD MAN.

O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant these fourscore years.

Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt.

OLD MAN.

You cannot see your way.

I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father’s wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I’d say I had eyes again!

OLD MAN.

How now! Who’s there?

[_Aside._] O gods! Who is’t can say ‘I am at the worst’? I am worse than e’er I was.

OLD MAN.

’Tis poor mad Tom.

[_Aside._] And worse I may be yet. The worst is not So long as we can say ‘This is the worst.’

OLD MAN.

Fellow, where goest?

Is it a beggar-man?

OLD MAN.

Madman, and beggar too.

He has some reason, else he could not beg. I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw; Which made me think a man a worm. My son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, They kill us for their sport.

[_Aside._] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Angering itself and others. Bless thee, master!

Is that the naked fellow?

OLD MAN.

Ay, my lord.

Then prithee get thee away. If for my sake Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain, I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love, And bring some covering for this naked soul, Which I’ll entreat to lead me.

OLD MAN.

Alack, sir, he is mad.

’Tis the time’s plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure; Above the rest, be gone.

OLD MAN.

I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have, Come on’t what will.

Sirrah naked fellow.

Poor Tom’s a-cold. [_Aside._] I cannot daub it further.

Come hither, fellow.

[_Aside._] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.

Know’st thou the way to Dover?

Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of darkness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master!

Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s plagues Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier. Heavens deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?

Ay, master.

There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep: Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me: from that place I shall no leading need.

Give me thy arm: Poor Tom shall lead thee.

ACT IV, SCENE II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace

Enter Goneril, Edmund; Oswald meeting them.

Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Now, where’s your master?

Madam, within; but never man so chang’d. I told him of the army that was landed; He smil’d at it: I told him you were coming; His answer was, ‘The worse.’ Of Gloucester’s treachery And of the loyal service of his son When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot, And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out. What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him; What like, offensive.

[_To Edmund._] Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake. He’ll not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother; Hasten his musters and conduct his powers. I must change names at home, and give the distaff Into my husband’s hands. This trusty servant Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear, If you dare venture in your own behalf, A mistress’s command. [_Giving a favour._] Wear this; spare speech; Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. Conceive, and fare thee well.

Yours in the ranks of death.

[_Exit Edmund._]

My most dear Gloucester. O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman’s services are due; My fool usurps my body.

Madam, here comes my lord.

Enter Albany.

I have been worth the whistle.

O Goneril! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face! I fear your disposition; That nature which contemns its origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself. She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use.

No more; the text is foolish.

Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d? A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence even the head-lugg’d bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him so benefitted! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.

Milk-liver’d man! That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land; With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest ‘Alack, why does he so?’

See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.

O vain fool!

Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame! Be-monster not thy feature! Were’t my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones. Howe’er thou art a fiend, A woman’s shape doth shield thee.

Marry, your manhood, mew!

Enter a Messenger.

What news?

O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead; Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester.

Gloucester’s eyes!

A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse, Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword To his great master; who, thereat enrag’d, Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead; But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck’d him after.

This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester! Lost he his other eye?

Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer; ’Tis from your sister.

[_Aside._] One way I like this well; But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life. Another way The news is not so tart. I’ll read, and answer.

Where was his son when they did take his eyes?

Come with my lady hither.

He is not here.

No, my good lord; I met him back again.

Knows he the wickedness?

Ay, my good lord. ’Twas he inform’d against him; And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course.

Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the King, And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend, Tell me what more thou know’st.

ACT IV, SCENE III. The French camp near Dover

Enter Kent and a Gentleman.

Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back, know you no reason?

Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger that his personal return was most required and necessary.

Who hath he left behind him general?

The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far.

Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?

Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence; And now and then an ample tear trill’d down Her delicate cheek. It seem’d she was a queen Over her passion; who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o’er her.

O, then it mov’d her.

Not to a rage: patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like a better day. Those happy smilets That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d, If all could so become it.

Made she no verbal question?

Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’ Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart; Cried ‘Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night? Let pity not be believ’d!’ There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour master’d her: then away she started To deal with grief alone.

It is the stars, The stars above us govern our conditions; Else one self mate and make could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?

Was this before the King return’d?

No, since.

Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the town; Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter.

Why, good sir?

A sovereign shame so elbows him. His own unkindness, That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters, these things sting His mind so venomously that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia.

Alack, poor gentleman!

Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?

’Tis so; they are afoot.

Well, sir, I’ll bring you to our master Lear And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile; When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go along with me.

ACT IV, SCENE IV. The French camp. A Tent

Enter with drum and colours, Cordelia, Physician and Soldiers.

Alack, ’tis he: why, he was met even now As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud; Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. A century send forth; Search every acre in the high-grown field, And bring him to our eye.

[_Exit an Officer._]

What can man’s wisdom In the restoring his bereaved sense, He that helps him take all my outward worth.

There is means, madam: Our foster nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks; that to provoke in him Are many simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish.

All bless’d secrets, All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears! Be aidant and remediate In the good man’s distress! Seek, seek for him; Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life That wants the means to lead it.

Enter a Messenger.

News, madam; The British powers are marching hitherward.

’Tis known before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about; Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right: Soon may I hear and see him!

ACT IV, SCENE V. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle

Enter Regan and Oswald.

But are my brother’s powers set forth?

Ay, madam.

Himself in person there?

Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier.

Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?

No, madam.

What might import my sister’s letter to him?

I know not, lady.

Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover to descry The strength o’ th’enemy.

I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.

Our troops set forth tomorrow; stay with us; The ways are dangerous.

I may not, madam: My lady charg’d my duty in this business.

Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Somethings, I know not what, I’ll love thee much. Let me unseal the letter.

Madam, I had rather—

I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.

I, madam?

I speak in understanding; y’are, I know’t: Therefore I do advise you take this note: My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk’d, And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady’s. You may gather more. If you do find him, pray you give him this; And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisdom to her. So, fare you well. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.

Would I could meet him, madam! I should show What party I do follow.

Fare thee well.

ACT IV, SCENE VI. The country near Dover

Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant.

When shall I come to the top of that same hill?

You do climb up it now. Look how we labour.

Methinks the ground is even.

Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea?

No, truly.

Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes’ anguish.

So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’st In better phrase and matter than thou didst.

Y’are much deceiv’d: in nothing am I chang’d But in my garments.

Methinks you’re better spoken.

Come on, sir; here’s the place. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark, Diminish’d to her cock; her cock a buoy Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge That on th’unnumber’d idle pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.

Set me where you stand.

Give me your hand. You are now within a foot of th’extreme verge. For all beneath the moon would I not leap upright.

Let go my hand. Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man’s taking. Fairies and gods Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off; Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.

Now fare ye well, good sir.

[_Seems to go._]

With all my heart.

[_Aside._] Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it.

O you mighty gods! This world I do renounce, and in your sights, Shake patiently my great affliction off: If I could bear it longer, and not fall To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, My snuff and loathed part of nature should Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him! Now, fellow, fare thee well.

Gone, sir, farewell.

[_Gloucester leaps, and falls along_]

And yet I know not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the theft. Had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past. Alive or dead? Ho you, sir! friend! Hear you, sir? speak! Thus might he pass indeed: yet he revives. What are you, sir?

Away, and let me die.

Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fathom down precipitating, Thou’dst shiver’d like an egg: but thou dost breathe; Hast heavy substance; bleed’st not; speak’st; art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life is a miracle. Speak yet again.

But have I fall’n, or no?

From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. Look up a-height, the shrill-gorg’d lark so far Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up.

Alack, I have no eyes. Is wretchedness depriv’d that benefit To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage And frustrate his proud will.

Give me your arm. Up, so. How is’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.

Too well, too well.

This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o’ the cliff what thing was that Which parted from you?

A poor unfortunate beggar.

As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelk’d and waved like the enraged sea. It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee.

I do remember now: henceforth I’ll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself ‘Enough, enough,’ and die. That thing you speak of, I took it for a man; often ’twould say, ‘The fiend, the fiend’; he led me to that place.

Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here?

Enter Lear, fantastically dressed up with flowers.

The safer sense will ne’er accommodate His master thus.

No, they cannot touch me for coining. I am the King himself.

O thou side-piercing sight!

Nature’s above art in that respect. There’s your press money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier’s yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace, this piece of toasted cheese will do’t. There’s my gauntlet; I’ll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! i’ the clout, i’ the clout. Hewgh! Give the word.

Sweet marjoram.

I know that voice.

Ha! Goneril with a white beard! They flattered me like a dog; and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to everything I said ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: they told me I was everything; ’tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.

The trick of that voice I do well remember: Is’t not the King?

Ay, every inch a king. When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No: The wren goes to’t, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive; For Gloucester’s bastard son was kinder to his father Than my daughters got ’tween the lawful sheets. To’t, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simp’ring dame, Whose face between her forks presages snow; That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure’s name. The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to’t with a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are centaurs, though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit, beneath is all the fiend’s; there’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination. There’s money for thee.

O, let me kiss that hand!

Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

O ruin’d piece of nature, this great world Shall so wear out to naught. Dost thou know me?

I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I’ll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it.

Were all the letters suns, I could not see one.

I would not take this from report, It is, and my heart breaks at it.

What, with the case of eyes?

O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world goes.

I see it feelingly.

What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears. See how yon justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar?

Ay, sir.

And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog’s obeyed in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back; Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter’d clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pygmy’s straw does pierce it. None does offend, none, I say none; I’ll able ’em; Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes, And like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now: Pull off my boots: harder, harder, so.

O, matter and impertinency mix’d! Reason in madness!

If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough, thy name is Gloucester. Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.

Alack, alack the day!

When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools. This a good block: It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt. I’ll put’t in proof And when I have stol’n upon these son-in-laws, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

Enter a Gentleman with Attendants.

O, here he is: lay hand upon him. Sir, Your most dear daughter—

No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons; I am cut to the brains.

You shall have anything.

No seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes for garden water-pots, Ay, and for laying autumn’s dust.

Good sir.

I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What! I will be jovial. Come, come, I am a king, my masters, know you that.

You are a royal one, and we obey you.

Then there’s life in’t. Come, and you get it, You shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa!

[_Exit running. Attendants follow._]

A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to.

Hail, gentle sir.

Sir, speed you. What’s your will?

Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?

Most sure and vulgar. Everyone hears that, which can distinguish sound.

But, by your favour, How near’s the other army?

Near and on speedy foot; the main descry Stands on the hourly thought.

I thank you sir, that’s all.

Though that the queen on special cause is here, Her army is mov’d on.

I thank you, sir.

[_Exit Gentleman._]

You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please.

Well pray you, father.

Now, good sir, what are you?

A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows; Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand, I’ll lead you to some biding.

Hearty thanks: The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot.

Enter Oswald.

A proclaim’d prize! Most happy! That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember. The sword is out That must destroy thee.

Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to’t.

[_Edgar interposes._]

Wherefore, bold peasant, Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence; Lest that th’infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion.

Let go, slave, or thou diest!

Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volke pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ’twould not ha’ bin zo long as ’tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’old man; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder: chill be plain with you.

Out, dunghill!

Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor your foins.

[_They fight, and Edgar knocks him down._]

Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body; And give the letters which thou find’st about me To Edmund, Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out Upon the British party. O, untimely death!

I know thee well. A serviceable villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire.

What, is he dead?

Sit you down, father; rest you. Let’s see these pockets; the letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry He had no other deathsman. Let us see: Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not. To know our enemies’ minds, we rip their hearts, Their papers is more lawful. [_Reads._] ‘Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he return the conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour. ‘Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant, ‘Goneril.’ O indistinguish’d space of woman’s will! A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life, And the exchange my brother! Here in the sands Thee I’ll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murderous lechers: and in the mature time, With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practis’d Duke: for him ’tis well That of thy death and business I can tell.

[_Exit Edgar, dragging out the body._]

The King is mad: how stiff is my vile sense, That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract: So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves.

[_A drum afar off._]

Give me your hand. Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum. Come, father, I’ll bestow you with a friend.

ACT IV, SCENE VII. A Tent in the French Camp

Lear on a bed, asleep, soft music playing; Physician, Gentleman and others attending.

Enter Cordelia and Kent.

O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short, And every measure fail me.

To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth; Nor more, nor clipp’d, but so.

Be better suited, These weeds are memories of those worser hours: I prithee put them off.

Pardon, dear madam; Yet to be known shortens my made intent. My boon I make it that you know me not Till time and I think meet.

Then be’t so, my good lord. [_To the Physician._] How does the King?

Madam, sleeps still.

O you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father.

So please your majesty That we may wake the King: he hath slept long.

Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?

Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep We put fresh garments on him. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him; I doubt not of his temperance.

Very well.

Please you draw near. Louder the music there!

O my dear father! Restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made!

Kind and dear princess!

Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge pity of them. Was this a face To be oppos’d against the warring winds? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick cross lightning? to watch, poor perdu! With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! ’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.

Madam, do you; ’tis fittest.

How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave. Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.

Sir, do you know me?

You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?

Still, still, far wide!

He’s scarce awake: let him alone awhile.

Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight? I am mightily abus’d. I should e’en die with pity, To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see; I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur’d Of my condition!

O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o’er me. No, sir, you must not kneel.

Pray, do not mock me: I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For, as I am a man, I think this lady To be my child Cordelia.

And so I am. I am.

Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not: If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not.

No cause, no cause.

Am I in France?

In your own kingdom, sir.

Do not abuse me.

Be comforted, good madam, the great rage, You see, is kill’d in him: and yet it is danger To make him even o’er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in; trouble him no more Till further settling.

Will’t please your highness walk?

You must bear with me: Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.

[_Exeunt Lear, Cordelia, Physician and Attendants._]

Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?

Most certain, sir.

Who is conductor of his people?

As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.

They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany.

Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look about; the powers of the kingdom approach apace.

The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir.

My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.

ACT V

SCENE I. The Camp of the British Forces near Dover

Enter, with drum and colours Edmund, Regan, Officers, Soldiers and others.

Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is advis’d by aught To change the course, he’s full of alteration And self-reproving, bring his constant pleasure.

[_To an Officer, who goes out._]

Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried.

’Tis to be doubted, madam.

Now, sweet lord, You know the goodness I intend upon you: Tell me but truly, but then speak the truth, Do you not love my sister?

In honour’d love.

But have you never found my brother’s way To the forfended place?

That thought abuses you.

I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers.

No, by mine honour, madam.

I never shall endure her, dear my lord, Be not familiar with her.

Fear not, She and the Duke her husband!

Enter with drum and colours Albany, Goneril and Soldiers.

[_Aside._] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should loosen him and me.

Our very loving sister, well be-met. Sir, this I heard: the King is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigour of our state Forc’d to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant. For this business, It toucheth us as France invades our land, Not bolds the King, with others whom I fear Most just and heavy causes make oppose.

Sir, you speak nobly.

Why is this reason’d?

Combine together ’gainst the enemy; For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here.

Let’s, then, determine with the ancient of war On our proceeding.

I shall attend you presently at your tent.

Sister, you’ll go with us?

’Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us.

[_Aside_.] O, ho, I know the riddle. I will go.

[_Exeunt Edmund, Regan, Goneril, Officers, Soldiers and Attendants._]

As they are going out, enter Edgar disguised.

If e’er your grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word.

I’ll overtake you. Speak.

Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, let the trumpet sound For him that brought it: wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that will prove What is avouched there. If you miscarry, Your business of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune love you!

Stay till I have read the letter.

I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, And I’ll appear again.

Why, fare thee well. I will o’erlook thy paper.

[_Exit Edgar._]

Enter Edmund.

The enemy’s in view; draw up your powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery; but your haste Is now urg’d on you.

We will greet the time.

To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now, then, we’ll use His countenance for the battle; which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon: for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate.

ACT V, SCENE II. A field between the two Camps

Alarum within. Enter with drum and colours, Lear, Cordelia and their Forces, and exeunt.

Enter Edgar and Gloucester.

Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host; pray that the right may thrive: If ever I return to you again, I’ll bring you comfort.

Grace go with you, sir!

[_Exit Edgar._]

Alarum and retreat within. Enter Edgar.

Away, old man, give me thy hand, away! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en: Give me thy hand; come on!

No further, sir; a man may rot even here.

What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all. Come on.

And that’s true too.

ACT V, SCENE III. The British Camp near Dover

Enter in conquest with drum and colours, Edmund, Lear and Cordelia as prisoners; Officers, Soldiers, &c.

Some officers take them away: good guard Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them.

We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurr’d the worst. For thee, oppressed King, I am cast down; Myself could else out-frown false fortune’s frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?

No, no, no, no. Come, let’s away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage: When thou dost ask me blessing I’ll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness. So we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too, Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out; And take upon’s the mystery of things, As if we were God’s spies. And we’ll wear out, In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by the moon.

Take them away.

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven, And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes; The good years shall devour them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We’ll see ’em starve first: come.

[_Exeunt Lear and Cordelia, guarded._]

Come hither, captain, hark. Take thou this note [_giving a paper_]; go follow them to prison. One step I have advanc’d thee; if thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To noble fortunes: know thou this, that men Are as the time is; to be tender-minded Does not become a sword. Thy great employment Will not bear question; either say thou’lt do’t, Or thrive by other means.

I’ll do’t, my lord.

About it; and write happy when thou hast done. Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so As I have set it down.

I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; If it be man’s work, I’ll do’t.

Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, Officers and Attendants.

Sir, you have show’d today your valiant strain, And fortune led you well: you have the captives Who were the opposites of this day’s strife: I do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine.

Sir, I thought it fit To send the old and miserable King To some retention and appointed guard; Whose age has charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side, And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes Which do command them. With him I sent the queen; My reason all the same; and they are ready Tomorrow, or at further space, to appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; And the best quarrels in the heat are curs’d By those that feel their sharpness. The question of Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place.

Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother.

That’s as we list to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers; Bore the commission of my place and person; The which immediacy may well stand up And call itself your brother.

Not so hot: In his own grace he doth exalt himself, More than in your addition.

In my rights, By me invested, he compeers the best.

That were the most, if he should husband you.

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Holla, holla! That eye that told you so look’d but asquint.

Lady, I am not well; else I should answer From a full-flowing stomach. General, Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine: Witness the world that I create thee here My lord and master.

Mean you to enjoy him?

The let-alone lies not in your good will.

Nor in thine, lord.

Half-blooded fellow, yes.

[_To Edmund._] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.

Stay yet; hear reason: Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason; and, in thine arrest, This gilded serpent. [_pointing to Goneril._] For your claim, fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife; ’Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord, And I her husband contradict your bans. If you will marry, make your loves to me, My lady is bespoke.

An interlude!

Thou art arm’d, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound: If none appear to prove upon thy person Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, There is my pledge. [_Throwing down a glove._] I’ll make it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaim’d thee.

Sick, O, sick!

[_Aside._] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine.

There’s my exchange. [_Throwing down a glove._] What in the world he is That names me traitor, villain-like he lies. Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach, On him, on you, who not? I will maintain My truth and honour firmly.

A herald, ho!

Enter a Herald.

Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge.

My sickness grows upon me.

She is not well. Convey her to my tent.

[_Exit Regan, led._]

Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound And read out this.

Sound, trumpet!

[_A trumpet sounds._]

[_Reads._] ‘If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.’

[_First trumpet._]

[_Second trumpet._]

Third trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar, armed, preceded by a trumpet.

Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o’ the trumpet.

What are you? Your name, your quality? and why you answer This present summons?

Know my name is lost; By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit. Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope.

Which is that adversary?

What’s he that speaks for Edmund, Earl of Gloucester?

Himself, what say’st thou to him?

Draw thy sword, That if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice: here is mine. Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, My oath, and my profession: I protest, Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor; False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father; Conspirant ’gainst this high illustrious prince; And, from the extremest upward of thy head To the descent and dust beneath thy foot, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou ‘No,’ This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest.

In wisdom I should ask thy name; But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. Back do I toss those treasons to thy head, With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart; Which for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise, This sword of mine shall give them instant way, Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!

[_Alarums. They fight. Edmund falls._]

Save him, save him!

This is mere practice, Gloucester: By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d, But cozen’d and beguil’d.

Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it. Hold, sir; Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it.

[_Gives the letter to Edmund._]

Say if I do, the laws are mine, not thine: Who can arraign me for’t?

Most monstrous! O! Know’st thou this paper?

Ask me not what I know.

[_To an Officer, who goes out._] Go after her; she’s desperate; govern her.

What you have charg’d me with, that have I done; And more, much more; the time will bring it out. ’Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou That hast this fortune on me? If thou’rt noble, I do forgive thee.

Let’s exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more thou hast wrong’d me. My name is Edgar and thy father’s son. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes.

Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true; The wheel is come full circle; I am here.

Methought thy very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. Let sorrow split my heart if ever I Did hate thee or thy father.

Worthy prince, I know’t.

Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of your father?

By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale; And when ’tis told, O that my heart would burst! The bloody proclamation to escape That follow’d me so near,—O, our lives’ sweetness! That with the pain of death we’d hourly die Rather than die at once!—taught me to shift Into a madman’s rags; t’assume a semblance That very dogs disdain’d; and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his guide, Led him, begg’d for him, sav’d him from despair; Never,—O fault!—reveal’d myself unto him Until some half hour past, when I was arm’d; Not sure, though hoping of this good success, I ask’d his blessing, and from first to last Told him my pilgrimage. But his flaw’d heart, Alack, too weak the conflict to support! ’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly.

This speech of yours hath mov’d me, And shall perchance do good, but speak you on; You look as you had something more to say.

If there be more, more woeful, hold it in; For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this.

This would have seem’d a period To such as love not sorrow; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more, And top extremity. Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man Who, having seen me in my worst estate, Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then finding Who ’twas that so endur’d, with his strong arms He fastened on my neck, and bellow’d out As he’d burst heaven; threw him on my father; Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear receiv’d, which in recounting His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets sounded, And there I left him tranc’d.

But who was this?

Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise Follow’d his enemy king and did him service Improper for a slave.

Enter a Gentleman hastily, with a bloody knife.

Help, help! O, help!

What kind of help?

Speak, man.

What means this bloody knife?

’Tis hot, it smokes; It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead!

Who dead? Speak, man.

Your lady, sir, your lady; and her sister By her is poisoned; she hath confesses it.

I was contracted to them both, all three Now marry in an instant.

Here comes Kent.

Enter Kent.

Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead. This judgement of the heavens that makes us tremble Touches us not with pity. O, is this he? The time will not allow the compliment Which very manners urges.

I am come To bid my King and master aye good night: Is he not here?

Great thing of us forgot! Speak, Edmund, where’s the King? and where’s Cordelia?

The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in.

Seest thou this object, Kent?

Alack, why thus?

Yet Edmund was belov’d. The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself.

Even so. Cover their faces.

I pant for life. Some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia; Nay, send in time.

Run, run, O, run!

To who, my lord? Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve.

Well thought on: take my sword, Give it the captain.

Haste thee for thy life.

[_Exit Edgar._]

He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame upon her own despair, That she fordid herself.

The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.

[_Edmund is borne off._]

Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Officer and others following.

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone. Had I your tongues and eyes, I’ld use them so That heaven’s vault should crack. She’s gone for ever! I know when one is dead, and when one lives; She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass; If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives.

Is this the promis’d end?

Or image of that horror?

Fall, and cease!

This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt.

O, my good master! [_Kneeling._]

Prithee, away!

’Tis noble Kent, your friend.

A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have sav’d her; now she’s gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is’t thou say’st? Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. I kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee.

’Tis true, my lords, he did.

Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made them skip. I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o’ the best, I’ll tell you straight.

If Fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated, One of them we behold.

This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?

The same, Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius?

He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that; He’ll strike, and quickly too:. He’s dead and rotten.

No, my good lord; I am the very man.

I’ll see that straight.

That from your first of difference and decay Have follow’d your sad steps.

You are welcome hither.

Nor no man else. All’s cheerless, dark and deadly. Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, And desperately are dead.

Ay, so I think.

He knows not what he says; and vain is it That we present us to him.

Very bootless.

Enter an Officer.

Edmund is dead, my lord.

That’s but a trifle here. You lords and noble friends, know our intent. What comfort to this great decay may come Shall be applied. For us, we will resign, During the life of this old majesty, To him our absolute power; [_to Edgar and Kent_] you to your rights; With boot and such addition as your honours Have more than merited. All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue and all foes The cup of their deservings. O, see, see!

And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her: look, her lips, Look there, look there!

[_He dies._]

He faints! My lord, my lord!

Break, heart; I prithee break!

Look up, my lord.

Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this rough world Stretch him out longer.

He is gone indeed.

The wonder is, he hath endur’d so long: He but usurp’d his life.

Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [_To Edgar and Kent._] Friends of my soul, you twain, Rule in this realm and the gor’d state sustain.

I have a journey, sir, shortly to go; My master calls me, I must not say no.

The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

[_Exeunt with a dead march._]

Contents — 33 sections

1. ACT I
2. ACT II
3. ACT III
4. ACT IV
5. ACT V
6. ACT I
7. ACT I, SCENE II. A Camp near Forres.
8. ACT I, SCENE III. A heath.
9. ACT I, SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace.
10. ACT I, SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle.
11. ACT I, SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle.
12. ACT I, SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle.
13. ACT II
14. ACT II, SCENE II. The same.
15. ACT II, SCENE III. The same.
16. ACT II, SCENE IV. The same. Without the Castle.
17. ACT III
18. ACT III, SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace.
19. ACT III, SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace.
20. ACT III, SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace.
21. ACT III, SCENE V. The heath.
22. ACT III, SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace.
23. ACT IV
24. ACT IV, SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff’s Castle.
25. ACT IV, SCENE III. England. Before the King’s Palace.
26. ACT V
27. ACT V, SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane.
28. ACT V, SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
29. ACT V, SCENE IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view.
30. ACT V, SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle.
31. ACT V, SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle.
32. ACT V, SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain.
33. ACT V, SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field.

ACT I

Scene I. An open Place. Scene II. A Camp near Forres. Scene III. A heath. Scene IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Scene V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle. Scene VI. The same. Before the Castle. Scene VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle.

ACT II

Scene I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. Scene II. The same. Scene III. The same. Scene IV. The same. Without the Castle.

ACT III

Scene I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. Scene III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. Scene IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. Scene V. The heath. Scene VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace.

ACT IV

Scene I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Cauldron Boiling. Scene II. Fife. A Room in Macduff’s Castle. Scene III. England. Before the King’s Palace.

ACT V

Scene I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Scene II. The Country near Dunsinane. Scene III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Scene IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view. Scene V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. Scene VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. Scene VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. Scene VIII. The same. Another part of the field.

Dramatis Personæ

DUNCAN, King of Scotland. MALCOLM, his Son. DONALBAIN, his Son. MACBETH, General in the King’s Army. BANQUO, General in the King’s Army. MACDUFF, Nobleman of Scotland. LENNOX, Nobleman of Scotland. ROSS, Nobleman of Scotland. MENTEITH, Nobleman of Scotland. ANGUS, Nobleman of Scotland. CAITHNESS, Nobleman of Scotland. FLEANCE, Son to Banquo. SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, General of the English Forces. YOUNG SIWARD, his Son. SEYTON, an Officer attending on Macbeth. BOY, Son to Macduff. An English Doctor. A Scottish Doctor. A Soldier. A Porter. An Old Man.

LADY MACBETH.

LADY MACDUFF.

Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. HECATE, and three Witches.

Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants and Messengers.

The Ghost of Banquo and several other Apparitions.

SCENE: In the end of the Fourth Act, in England; through the rest of the Play, in Scotland; and chiefly at Macbeth’s Castle.

ACT I

SCENE I. An open Place.

Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.

FIRST WITCH.

When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

SECOND WITCH.

When the hurlyburly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.

THIRD WITCH.

That will be ere the set of sun.

FIRST WITCH.

Where the place?

SECOND WITCH.

Upon the heath.

THIRD WITCH.

There to meet with Macbeth.

FIRST WITCH.

I come, Graymalkin!

SECOND WITCH.

Paddock calls.

THIRD WITCH.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.

ACT I, SCENE II. A Camp near Forres.

Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Captain.

What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state.

This is the sergeant Who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought ’Gainst my captivity.—Hail, brave friend! Say to the King the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it.

Doubtful it stood; As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald (Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him) from the Western Isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show’d like a rebel’s whore. But all’s too weak; For brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name), Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish’d steel, Which smok’d with bloody execution, Like Valour’s minion, carv’d out his passage, Till he fac’d the slave; Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chops, And fix’d his head upon our battlements.

O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!

As whence the sun ’gins his reflection Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break, So from that spring, whence comfort seem’d to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had, with valour arm’d, Compell’d these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish’d arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault.

Dismay’d not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?

Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg’d with double cracks; So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe: Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell— But I am faint, my gashes cry for help.

So well thy words become thee as thy wounds: They smack of honour both.—Go, get him surgeons.

[_Exit Captain, attended._]

Enter Ross and Angus.

Who comes here?

The worthy Thane of Ross.

What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange.

God save the King!

Whence cam’st thou, worthy thane?

From Fife, great King, Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor, The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict; Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point, rebellious arm ’gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude, The victory fell on us.

Great happiness!

That now Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s Inch Ten thousand dollars to our general use.

No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth.

I’ll see it done.

What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.

ACT I, SCENE III. A heath.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches.

FIRST WITCH.

Where hast thou been, sister?

SECOND WITCH.

Killing swine.

THIRD WITCH.

Sister, where thou?

FIRST WITCH.

A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch’d, and mounch’d, and mounch’d. “Give me,” quoth I. “Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’ th’ _Tiger:_ But in a sieve I’ll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.

SECOND WITCH.

I’ll give thee a wind.

FIRST WITCH.

Th’art kind.

THIRD WITCH.

And I another.

FIRST WITCH.

I myself have all the other, And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I’ the shipman’s card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid. Weary sev’n-nights nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have.

SECOND WITCH.

Show me, show me.

FIRST WITCH.

Here I have a pilot’s thumb, Wrack’d as homeward he did come.

[_Drum within._]

THIRD WITCH.

A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come.

The Weird Sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about: Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine. Peace!—the charm’s wound up.

Enter Macbeth and Banquo.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

How far is’t call’d to Forres?—What are these, So wither’d, and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o’ th’ earth, And yet are on’t?—Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so.

Speak, if you can;—what are you?

FIRST WITCH.

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!

SECOND WITCH.

All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!

THIRD WITCH.

All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter!

Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair?—I’ th’ name of truth, Are ye fantastical, or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow, and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate.

FIRST WITCH.

SECOND WITCH.

THIRD WITCH.

FIRST WITCH.

Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.

SECOND WITCH.

Not so happy, yet much happier.

THIRD WITCH.

Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none: So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!

FIRST WITCH.

Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinel’s death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be king Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence? or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?—Speak, I charge you.

[_Witches vanish._]

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish’d?

Into the air; and what seem’d corporal, Melted as breath into the wind. Would they had stay’d!

Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?

Your children shall be kings.

You shall be king.

And Thane of Cawdor too; went it not so?

To the selfsame tune and words. Who’s here?

Enter Ross and Angus.

The King hath happily receiv’d, Macbeth, The news of thy success, and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels’ fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his: silenc’d with that, In viewing o’er the rest o’ th’ selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as tale Came post with post; and everyone did bear Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, And pour’d them down before him.

We are sent To give thee from our royal master thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee.

And, for an earnest of a greater honour, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: In which addition, hail, most worthy thane, For it is thine.

What, can the devil speak true?

The Thane of Cawdor lives: why do you dress me In borrow’d robes?

Who was the Thane lives yet, But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combin’d With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not; But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d, Have overthrown him.

[_Aside._] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind. [_To Ross and Angus._] Thanks for your pains. [_To Banquo._] Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis’d no less to them?

That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange: And oftentimes to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths; Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s In deepest consequence.— Cousins, a word, I pray you.

[_Aside._] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.— [_Aside._] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor: If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smother’d in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

Look, how our partner’s rapt.

[_Aside._] If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me Without my stir.

New honours come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use.

[_Aside._] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.

Give me your favour. My dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register’d where every day I turn The leaf to read them.—Let us toward the King.— Think upon what hath chanc’d; and at more time, The interim having weigh’d it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other.

Very gladly.

Till then, enough.—Come, friends.

ACT I, SCENE IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox and Attendants.

Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return’d?

My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die, who did report, That very frankly he confess’d his treasons, Implor’d your Highness’ pardon, and set forth A deep repentance. Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he ow’d As ’twere a careless trifle.

There’s no art To find the mind’s construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust.

Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross and Angus.

O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserv’d; That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay.

The service and the loyalty I owe, In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness’ part Is to receive our duties: and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants; Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honour.

Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labour To make thee full of growing.—Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv’d, nor must be known No less to have done so, let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart.

There if I grow, The harvest is your own.

My plenteous joys, Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.—Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know, We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland: which honour must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers.—From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you.

The rest is labour, which is not us’d for you: I’ll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So, humbly take my leave.

My worthy Cawdor!

[_Aside._] The Prince of Cumberland!—That is a step On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand, yet let that be, Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

True, worthy Banquo! He is full so valiant; And in his commendations I am fed. It is a banquet to me. Let’s after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome: It is a peerless kinsman.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._]

ACT I, SCENE V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle.

Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter.

LADY MACBETH.

“They met me in the day of success; and I have learned by the perfect’st report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the King, who all-hailed me, ‘Thane of Cawdor’; by which title, before, these Weird Sisters saluted me, and referred me to the coming on of time, with ‘Hail, king that shalt be!’ This have I thought good to deliver thee (my dearest partner of greatness) that thou might’st not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promis’d thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.”

Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou’dst have, great Glamis, That which cries, “Thus thou must do,” if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do, Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And chastise with the valour of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown’d withal.

Enter a Messenger.

What is your tidings?

The King comes here tonight.

LADY MACBETH.

Thou’rt mad to say it. Is not thy master with him? who, were’t so, Would have inform’d for preparation.

So please you, it is true. Our thane is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message.

LADY MACBETH.

Give him tending. He brings great news.

[_Exit Messenger._]

The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, “Hold, hold!”

Enter Macbeth.

Great Glamis, worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant.

My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight.

LADY MACBETH.

And when goes hence?

Tomorrow, as he purposes.

LADY MACBETH.

O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under’t. He that’s coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night’s great business into my dispatch; Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.

We will speak further.

LADY MACBETH.

Only look up clear; To alter favour ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me.

ACT I, SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle.

Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending.

Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus and Attendants.

This castle hath a pleasant seat. The air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses.

This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve, By his loved mansionry, that the heaven’s breath Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d The air is delicate.

Enter Lady Macbeth.

See, see, our honour’d hostess!— The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God ’ild us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble.

LADY MACBETH.

All our service, In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honours deep and broad wherewith Your Majesty loads our house: for those of old, And the late dignities heap’d up to them, We rest your hermits.

Where’s the Thane of Cawdor? We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose To be his purveyor: but he rides well; And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight.

LADY MACBETH.

Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your Highness’ pleasure, Still to return your own.

Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess.

ACT I, SCENE VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle.

Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth.

If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well It were done quickly. If th’ assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch With his surcease success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all—here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We’d jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught, return To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice Commends th’ ingredience of our poison’d chalice To our own lips. He’s here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against The deep damnation of his taking-off; And pity, like a naked new-born babe, Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin, hors’d Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself And falls on th’ other—

Enter Lady Macbeth.

How now! what news?

LADY MACBETH.

He has almost supp’d. Why have you left the chamber?

Hath he ask’d for me?

LADY MACBETH.

Know you not he has?

We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honour’d me of late; and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon.

LADY MACBETH.

Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress’d yourself? Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,” Like the poor cat i’ th’ adage?

Pr’ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none.

LADY MACBETH.

What beast was’t, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both: They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.

If we should fail?

LADY MACBETH.

We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we’ll not fail. When Duncan is asleep (Whereto the rather shall his day’s hard journey Soundly invite him), his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason A limbeck only: when in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon Th’ unguarded Duncan? what not put upon His spongy officers; who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell?

Bring forth men-children only; For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv’d, When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us’d their very daggers, That they have done’t?

LADY MACBETH.

Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar Upon his death?

I am settled, and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know.

ACT II

SCENE I. Inverness. Court within the Castle.

Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch before him.

How goes the night, boy?

The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.

And she goes down at twelve.

I take’t, ’tis later, sir.

Hold, take my sword.—There’s husbandry in heaven; Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!

Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch.

Give me my sword.—Who’s there?

A friend.

What, sir, not yet at rest? The King’s abed: He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your offices. This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up In measureless content.

Being unprepar’d, Our will became the servant to defect, Which else should free have wrought.

All’s well. I dreamt last night of the three Weird Sisters: To you they have show’d some truth.

I think not of them: Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time.

At your kind’st leisure.

If you shall cleave to my consent, when ’tis, It shall make honour for you.

So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis’d, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell’d.

Good repose the while!

Thanks, sir: the like to you.

[_Exeunt Banquo and Fleance._]

Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.

[_Exit Servant._]

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:— I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, Which was not so before.—There’s no such thing. It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.—Now o’er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain’d sleep. Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s off’rings; and wither’d murder, Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost.—Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives. Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.

[_A bell rings._]

I go, and it is done. The bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.

ACT II, SCENE II. The same.

Enter Lady Macbeth.

LADY MACBETH.

That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold: What hath quench’d them hath given me fire.—Hark!—Peace! It was the owl that shriek’d, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern’st good night. He is about it. The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d their possets, That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die.

[_Within._] Who’s there?—what, ho!

LADY MACBETH.

Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d, And ’tis not done. Th’ attempt and not the deed Confounds us.—Hark!—I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss ’em.—Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done’t.—My husband!

Enter Macbeth.

I have done the deed.—Didst thou not hear a noise?

LADY MACBETH.

I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak?

LADY MACBETH.

As I descended?

LADY MACBETH.

Hark!—Who lies i’ th’ second chamber?

LADY MACBETH.

This is a sorry sight.

[_Looking on his hands._]

LADY MACBETH.

A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.

There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one cried, “Murder!” That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them. But they did say their prayers, and address’d them Again to sleep.

LADY MACBETH.

There are two lodg’d together.

One cried, “God bless us!” and, “Amen,” the other, As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands. List’ning their fear, I could not say “Amen,” When they did say, “God bless us.”

LADY MACBETH.

Consider it not so deeply.

But wherefore could not I pronounce “Amen”? I had most need of blessing, and “Amen” Stuck in my throat.

LADY MACBETH.

These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad.

Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

LADY MACBETH.

What do you mean?

Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to all the house: “Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more!”

LADY MACBETH.

Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, You do unbend your noble strength to think So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, And wash this filthy witness from your hand.— Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there: go carry them, and smear The sleepy grooms with blood.

I’ll go no more: I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on’t again I dare not.

LADY MACBETH.

Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures. ’Tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt.

[_Exit. Knocking within._]

Whence is that knocking? How is’t with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.

Enter Lady Macbeth.

LADY MACBETH.

My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [_Knocking within._] I hear knocking At the south entry:—retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended.—[_Knocking within._] Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers. Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.

To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself. [_Knocking within._] Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!

ACT II, SCENE III. The same.

Enter a Porter. Knocking within.

Here’s a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell gate, he should have old turning the key. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock, knock. Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Belzebub? Here’s a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you’ll sweat for’t. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ th’ other devil’s name? Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? Faith, here’s an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock. Never at quiet! What are you?—But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to th’ everlasting bonfire. [_Knocking._] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter.

[_Opens the gate._]

Enter Macduff and Lennox.

Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late?

Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.

What three things does drink especially provoke?

Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him.

I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.

That it did, sir, i’ the very throat on me; but I requited him for his lie; and (I think) being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him.

Is thy master stirring?

Enter Macbeth.

Our knocking has awak’d him; here he comes.

Good morrow, noble sir!

Good morrow, both!

Is the King stirring, worthy thane?

Not yet.

He did command me to call timely on him. I have almost slipp’d the hour.

I’ll bring you to him.

I know this is a joyful trouble to you; But yet ’tis one.

The labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door.

I’ll make so bold to call. For ’tis my limited service.

[_Exit Macduff._]

Goes the King hence today?

He does. He did appoint so.

The night has been unruly: where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down and, as they say, Lamentings heard i’ th’ air, strange screams of death, And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus’d events, New hatch’d to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamour’d the live-long night. Some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake.

’Twas a rough night.

My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it.

Enter Macduff.

O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart cannot conceive nor name thee!

MACBETH, LENNOX. What’s the matter?

Confusion now hath made his masterpiece! Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence The life o’ th’ building.

What is’t you say? the life?

Mean you his majesty?

Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak. See, and then speak yourselves.

[_Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox._]

Awake, awake!— Ring the alarum bell.—Murder and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit, And look on death itself! Up, up, and see The great doom’s image. Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror!

[_Alarum-bell rings._]

Enter Lady Macbeth.

LADY MACBETH.

What’s the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!

O gentle lady, ’Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition, in a woman’s ear, Would murder as it fell.

Enter Banquo.

O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master’s murder’d!

LADY MACBETH.

Woe, alas! What, in our house?

Too cruel anywhere.— Dear Duff, I pr’ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so.

Enter Macbeth and Lennox with Ross.

Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d a blessed time; for, from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys: renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.

Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.

What is amiss?

You are, and do not know’t: The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d.

Your royal father’s murder’d.

O, by whom?

Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done’t: Their hands and faces were all badg’d with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip’d, we found Upon their pillows. They star’d, and were distracted; No man’s life was to be trusted with them.

O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them.

Wherefore did you so?

Who can be wise, amaz’d, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: Th’ expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood; And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech’d with gore. Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make’s love known?

LADY MACBETH.

Help me hence, ho!

Look to the lady.

Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours?

What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us? Let’s away. Our tears are not yet brew’d.

Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion.

Look to the lady:—

[_Lady Macbeth is carried out._]

And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet, And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us: In the great hand of God I stand; and thence Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight Of treasonous malice.

And so do I.

So all.

Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i’ th’ hall together.

Well contented.

[_Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain._]

What will you do? Let’s not consort with them: To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England.

To Ireland, I. Our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are, There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near in blood, The nearer bloody.

This murderous shaft that’s shot Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away. There’s warrant in that theft Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.

ACT II, SCENE IV. The same. Without the Castle.

Enter Ross and an Old Man.

OLD MAN.

Threescore and ten I can remember well, Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings.

Ha, good father, Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man’s act, Threatens his bloody stage: by the clock ’tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp. Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it?

OLD MAN.

’Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last, A falcon, towering in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.

And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange and certain) Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind.

OLD MAN.

’Tis said they eat each other.

They did so; to the amazement of mine eyes, That look’d upon’t. Here comes the good Macduff.

Enter Macduff.

How goes the world, sir, now?

Why, see you not?

Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed?

Those that Macbeth hath slain.

Alas, the day! What good could they pretend?

They were suborn’d. Malcolm and Donalbain, the King’s two sons, Are stol’n away and fled; which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed.

’Gainst nature still: Thriftless ambition, that will ravin up Thine own life’s means!—Then ’tis most like The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.

He is already nam’d; and gone to Scone To be invested.

Where is Duncan’s body?

Carried to Colmekill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones.

Will you to Scone?

No, cousin, I’ll to Fife.

Well, I will thither.

Well, may you see things well done there. Adieu! Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!

Farewell, father.

OLD MAN.

God’s benison go with you; and with those That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!

ACT III

SCENE I. Forres. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Banquo.

Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the Weird Women promis’d; and, I fear, Thou play’dst most foully for’t; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity; But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine) Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well, And set me up in hope? But hush; no more.

Sennet sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, and Attendants.

Here’s our chief guest.

LADY MACBETH.

If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast, And all-thing unbecoming.

Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I’ll request your presence.

Let your Highness Command upon me, to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie For ever knit.

Ride you this afternoon?

Ay, my good lord.

We should have else desir’d your good advice (Which still hath been both grave and prosperous) In this day’s council; but we’ll take tomorrow. Is’t far you ride?

As far, my lord, as will fill up the time ’Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night, For a dark hour or twain.

Fail not our feast.

My lord, I will not.

We hear our bloody cousins are bestow’d In England and in Ireland; not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention. But of that tomorrow, When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?

Ay, my good lord: our time does call upon’s.

I wish your horses swift and sure of foot; And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell.—

[_Exit Banquo._]

Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper time alone: while then, God be with you.

[_Exeunt Lady Macbeth, Lords, &c._]

Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men Our pleasure?

They are, my lord, without the palace gate.

Bring them before us.

[_Exit Servant._]

To be thus is nothing, But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear’d: ’tis much he dares; And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and under him My genius is rebuk’d; as, it is said, Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of king upon me, And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like, They hail’d him father to a line of kings: Upon my head they plac’d a fruitless crown, And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench’d with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If’t be so, For Banquo’s issue have I fil’d my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d; Put rancours in the vessel of my peace Only for them; and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to th’ utterance!—Who’s there?—

Enter Servant with two Murderers.

Now go to the door, and stay there till we call.

[_Exit Servant._]

Was it not yesterday we spoke together?

FIRST MURDERER.

It was, so please your Highness.

Well then, now Have you consider’d of my speeches? Know That it was he, in the times past, which held you So under fortune, which you thought had been Our innocent self? This I made good to you In our last conference, pass’d in probation with you How you were borne in hand, how cross’d, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion craz’d Say, “Thus did Banquo.”

FIRST MURDERER.

You made it known to us.

I did so; and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospell’d, To pray for this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave, And beggar’d yours forever?

FIRST MURDERER.

We are men, my liege.

Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs: the valu’d file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos’d; whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill That writes them all alike: and so of men. Now, if you have a station in the file, Not i’ th’ worst rank of manhood, say’t; And I will put that business in your bosoms, Whose execution takes your enemy off, Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect.

SECOND MURDERER.

I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Hath so incens’d that I am reckless what I do to spite the world.

FIRST MURDERER.

And I another, So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be rid on’t.

Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy.

BOTH MURDERERS.

True, my lord.

So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near’st of life; and though I could With barefac’d power sweep him from my sight, And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down: and thence it is That I to your assistance do make love, Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons.

SECOND MURDERER.

We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us.

FIRST MURDERER.

Though our lives—

Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most, I will advise you where to plant yourselves, Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ th’ time, The moment on’t; for’t must be done tonight And something from the palace; always thought That I require a clearness. And with him (To leave no rubs nor botches in the work) Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart. I’ll come to you anon.

BOTH MURDERERS.

We are resolv’d, my lord.

I’ll call upon you straight: abide within.

[_Exeunt Murderers._]

It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, If it find heaven, must find it out tonight.

ACT III, SCENE II. The same. Another Room in the Palace.

Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.

LADY MACBETH.

Is Banquo gone from court?

Ay, madam, but returns again tonight.

LADY MACBETH.

Say to the King, I would attend his leisure For a few words.

Madam, I will.

LADY MACBETH.

Naught’s had, all’s spent, Where our desire is got without content: ’Tis safer to be that which we destroy, Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

Enter Macbeth.

How now, my lord, why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making, Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard: what’s done is done.

We have scorch’d the snake, not kill’d it. She’ll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, Both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well; Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing Can touch him further.

LADY MACBETH.

Come on, Gently my lord, sleek o’er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial among your guests tonight.

So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you. Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honours in these flattering streams, And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are.

LADY MACBETH.

You must leave this.

O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know’st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives.

LADY MACBETH.

But in them nature’s copy’s not eterne.

There’s comfort yet; they are assailable. Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown His cloister’d flight, ere to black Hecate’s summons The shard-born beetle, with his drowsy hums, Hath rung night’s yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note.

LADY MACBETH.

What’s to be done?

Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale!—Light thickens; and the crow Makes wing to th’ rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. Thou marvell’st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. So, pr’ythee, go with me.

ACT III, SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace.

Enter three Murderers.

FIRST MURDERER.

But who did bid thee join with us?

THIRD MURDERER.

SECOND MURDERER.

He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just.

FIRST MURDERER.

Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day. Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch.

THIRD MURDERER.

Hark! I hear horses.

[_Within._] Give us a light there, ho!

SECOND MURDERER.

Then ’tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i’ th’ court.

FIRST MURDERER.

His horses go about.

THIRD MURDERER.

Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk.

Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch.

SECOND MURDERER.

A light, a light!

THIRD MURDERER.

’Tis he.

FIRST MURDERER.

Stand to’t.

It will be rain tonight.

FIRST MURDERER.

Let it come down.

[_Assaults Banquo._]

O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge—O slave!

[_Dies. Fleance escapes._]

THIRD MURDERER.

Who did strike out the light?

FIRST MURDERER.

Was’t not the way?

THIRD MURDERER.

There’s but one down: the son is fled.

SECOND MURDERER.

We have lost best half of our affair.

FIRST MURDERER.

Well, let’s away, and say how much is done.

ACT III, SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace.

A banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords and Attendants.

You know your own degrees, sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome.

Thanks to your Majesty.

Ourself will mingle with society, And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time, We will require her welcome.

LADY MACBETH.

Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; For my heart speaks they are welcome.

Enter first Murderer to the door.

See, they encounter thee with their hearts’ thanks. Both sides are even: here I’ll sit i’ th’ midst.

Be large in mirth; anon we’ll drink a measure The table round. There’s blood upon thy face.

’Tis Banquo’s then.

’Tis better thee without than he within. Is he dispatch’d?

My lord, his throat is cut. That I did for him.

Thou art the best o’ th’ cut-throats; Yet he’s good that did the like for Fleance: If thou didst it, thou art the nonpareil.

Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scap’d.

Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, As broad and general as the casing air: But now I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in To saucy doubts and fears. But Banquo’s safe?

Ay, my good lord. Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head; The least a death to nature.

Thanks for that. There the grown serpent lies; the worm that’s fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for th’ present.—Get thee gone; tomorrow We’ll hear, ourselves, again.

[_Exit Murderer._]

LADY MACBETH.

My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch’d, while ’tis a-making, ’Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it.

The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth’s place.

Sweet remembrancer!— Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both!

May’t please your Highness sit.

Here had we now our country’s honour roof’d, Were the grac’d person of our Banquo present; Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance!

His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please’t your Highness To grace us with your royal company?

The table’s full.

Here is a place reserv’d, sir.

Here, my good lord. What is’t that moves your Highness?

Which of you have done this?

What, my good lord?

Thou canst not say I did it. Never shake Thy gory locks at me.

Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is not well.

LADY MACBETH.

Sit, worthy friends. My lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat; The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well. If much you note him, You shall offend him, and extend his passion. Feed, and regard him not.—Are you a man?

Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil.

LADY MACBETH.

O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear: This is the air-drawn dagger which you said, Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws, and starts (Impostors to true fear), would well become A woman’s story at a winter’s fire, Authoris’d by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all’s done, You look but on a stool.

Pr’ythee, see there! Behold! look! lo! how say you? Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too.— If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites.

[_Ghost disappears._]

LADY MACBETH.

What, quite unmann’d in folly?

If I stand here, I saw him.

LADY MACBETH.

Fie, for shame!

Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ th’ olden time, Ere humane statute purg’d the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d Too terrible for the ear: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools. This is more strange Than such a murder is.

LADY MACBETH.

My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you.

I do forget.— Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends. I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I’ll sit down.—Give me some wine, fill full.— I drink to the general joy o’ th’ whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here.

Ghost rises again.

To all, and him, we thirst, And all to all.

Our duties, and the pledge.

Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with!

LADY MACBETH.

Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom: ’tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.

What man dare, I dare: Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm’d rhinoceros, or th’ Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble: or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword; If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mock’ry, hence!

[_Ghost disappears._]

Why, so;—being gone, I am a man again.—Pray you, sit still.

LADY MACBETH.

You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting With most admir’d disorder.

Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer’s cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe, When now I think you can behold such sights, And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, When mine are blanch’d with fear.

What sights, my lord?

LADY MACBETH.

I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him. At once, good night:— Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.

Good night; and better health Attend his Majesty!

LADY MACBETH.

A kind good night to all!

[_Exeunt all Lords and Attendants._]

It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth The secret’st man of blood.—What is the night?

LADY MACBETH.

Almost at odds with morning, which is which.

How say’st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding?

LADY MACBETH.

Did you send to him, sir?

I hear it by the way; but I will send. There’s not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant fee’d. I will tomorrow (And betimes I will) to the Weird Sisters: More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good, All causes shall give way: I am in blood Stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o’er. Strange things I have in head, that will to hand, Which must be acted ere they may be scann’d.

LADY MACBETH.

You lack the season of all natures, sleep.

Come, we’ll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use. We are yet but young in deed.

ACT III, SCENE V. The heath.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches meeting Hecate.

FIRST WITCH.

Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly.

Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call’d to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful; who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i’ th’ morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for th’ air; this night I’ll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon. Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vap’rous drop profound; I’ll catch it ere it come to ground: And that, distill’d by magic sleights, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion. He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear. And you all know, security Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.

[_Music and song within, “Come away, come away” &c._]

Hark! I am call’d; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me.

FIRST WITCH.

Come, let’s make haste; she’ll soon be back again.

ACT III, SCENE VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Lennox and another Lord.

My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret farther: only, I say, Thing’s have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth:—marry, he was dead:— And the right valiant Banquo walk’d too late; Whom, you may say, if’t please you, Fleance kill’d, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too; For ’twould have anger’d any heart alive, To hear the men deny’t. So that, I say, He has borne all things well: and I do think, That had he Duncan’s sons under his key (As, and’t please heaven, he shall not) they should find What ’twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace!—for from broad words, and ’cause he fail’d His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself?

The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is receiv’d Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward That, by the help of these (with Him above To ratify the work), we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights; Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage, and receive free honours, All which we pine for now. And this report Hath so exasperate the King that he Prepares for some attempt of war.

Sent he to Macduff?

He did: and with an absolute “Sir, not I,” The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, “You’ll rue the time That clogs me with this answer.”

And that well might Advise him to a caution, t’ hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England, and unfold His message ere he come, that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accurs’d!

I’ll send my prayers with him.

ACT IV

SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Cauldron Boiling.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches.

FIRST WITCH.

Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.

SECOND WITCH.

Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whin’d.

THIRD WITCH.

Harpier cries:—’Tis time, ’tis time.

FIRST WITCH.

Round about the cauldron go; In the poison’d entrails throw.— Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter’d venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ th’ charmed pot!

Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble.

SECOND WITCH.

Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble.

THIRD WITCH.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch’s mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg’d i’ th’ dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse, Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver’d by a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, For th’ ingredients of our cauldron.

Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and cauldron, bubble.

SECOND WITCH.

Cool it with a baboon’s blood. Then the charm is firm and good.

Enter Hecate.

O, well done! I commend your pains, And everyone shall share i’ th’ gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in.

[_Music and a song: “Black Spirits,” &c._]

[_Exit Hecate._]

SECOND WITCH.

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, Whoever knocks!

Enter Macbeth.

How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is’t you do?

A deed without a name.

I conjure you, by that which you profess, (Howe’er you come to know it) answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the churches; though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up; Though bladed corn be lodg’d, and trees blown down; Though castles topple on their warders’ heads; Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure Of nature’s germens tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken, answer me To what I ask you.

FIRST WITCH.

SECOND WITCH.

THIRD WITCH.

We’ll answer.

FIRST WITCH.

Say, if thou’dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters?

Call ’em, let me see ’em.

FIRST WITCH.

Pour in sow’s blood, that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that’s sweaten From the murderer’s gibbet throw Into the flame.

Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show!

[_Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises._]

Tell me, thou unknown power,—

FIRST WITCH.

He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught.

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff; Beware the Thane of Fife.—Dismiss me.—Enough.

Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp’d my fear aright.—But one word more.

FIRST WITCH.

He will not be commanded. Here’s another, More potent than the first.

[_Thunder. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises._]

Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!

Had I three ears, I’d hear thee.

Be bloody, bold, and resolute. Laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth.

Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee? But yet I’ll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate. Thou shalt not live; That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder.

[_Thunder. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises._]

What is this, That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty?

Listen, but speak not to’t.

Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be, until Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill Shall come against him.

That will never be: Who can impress the forest; bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellious head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac’d Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom.—Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art Can tell so much, shall Banquo’s issue ever Reign in this kingdom?

Seek to know no more.

I will be satisfied: deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know. Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this?

FIRST WITCH.

SECOND WITCH.

THIRD WITCH.

Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart!

[_A show of eight kings appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo following._]

Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo. Down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs:—and thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. A third is like the former.—Filthy hags! Why do you show me this?—A fourth!—Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to th’ crack of doom? Another yet!—A seventh!—I’ll see no more:— And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry. Horrible sight!—Now I see ’tis true; For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his.—What! is this so?

FIRST WITCH.

Ay, sir, all this is so:—but why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?— Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights. I’ll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round; That this great king may kindly say, Our duties did his welcome pay.

[_Music. The Witches dance, and vanish._]

Where are they? Gone?—Let this pernicious hour Stand aye accursed in the calendar!— Come in, without there!

Enter Lennox.

What’s your Grace’s will?

Saw you the Weird Sisters?

No, my lord.

Came they not by you?

No, indeed, my lord.

Infected be the air whereon they ride; And damn’d all those that trust them!—I did hear The galloping of horse: who was’t came by?

’Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England.

Fled to England!

Ay, my good lord.

Time, thou anticipat’st my dread exploits: The flighty purpose never is o’ertook Unless the deed go with it. From this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to th’ edge o’ th’ sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I’ll do before this purpose cool: But no more sights!—Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are.

ACT IV, SCENE II. Fife. A Room in Macduff’s Castle.

Enter Lady Macduff her Son and Ross.

LADY MACDUFF.

What had he done, to make him fly the land?

You must have patience, madam.

LADY MACDUFF.

He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.

You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear.

LADY MACDUFF.

Wisdom! to leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not: He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear, and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason.

My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband, He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows The fits o’ th’ season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move—I take my leave of you: Shall not be long but I’ll be here again. Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward To what they were before.—My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you!

LADY MACDUFF.

Father’d he is, and yet he’s fatherless.

I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort: I take my leave at once.

LADY MACDUFF.

Sirrah, your father’s dead. And what will you do now? How will you live?

As birds do, mother.

LADY MACDUFF.

What, with worms and flies?

With what I get, I mean; and so do they.

LADY MACDUFF.

Poor bird! thou’dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall nor the gin.

Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying.

LADY MACDUFF.

Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for a father?

Nay, how will you do for a husband?

LADY MACDUFF.

Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.

Then you’ll buy ’em to sell again.

LADY MACDUFF.

Thou speak’st with all thy wit; And yet, i’ faith, with wit enough for thee.

Was my father a traitor, mother?

LADY MACDUFF.

Ay, that he was.

What is a traitor?

LADY MACDUFF.

Why, one that swears and lies.

And be all traitors that do so?

LADY MACDUFF.

Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged.

And must they all be hanged that swear and lie?

LADY MACDUFF.

Every one.

Who must hang them?

LADY MACDUFF.

Why, the honest men.

Then the liars and swearers are fools: for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them.

LADY MACDUFF.

Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father?

If he were dead, you’ld weep for him: if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.

LADY MACDUFF.

Poor prattler, how thou talk’st!

Enter a Messenger.

Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honour I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly: If you will take a homely man’s advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer.

LADY MACDUFF.

Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable; to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly: why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defence, To say I have done no harm? What are these faces?

Enter Murderers.

FIRST MURDERER.

Where is your husband?

LADY MACDUFF.

I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him.

FIRST MURDERER.

He’s a traitor.

Thou liest, thou shag-ear’d villain!

FIRST MURDERER.

What, you egg!

[_Stabbing him._]

Young fry of treachery!

He has kill’d me, mother: Run away, I pray you!

[_Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying “Murder!” and pursued by the Murderers._]

ACT IV, SCENE III. England. Before the King’s Palace.

Enter Malcolm and Macduff.

Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom. Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry; new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland, and yell’d out Like syllable of dolour.

What I believe, I’ll wail; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest: you have loved him well; He hath not touch’d you yet. I am young; but something You may deserve of him through me; and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god.

I am not treacherous.

But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon. That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so.

I have lost my hopes.

Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking?—I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think.

Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy wrongs; The title is affeer’d.—Fare thee well, lord: I would not be the villain that thou think’st For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp And the rich East to boot.

Be not offended: I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think, withal, There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here, from gracious England, have I offer Of goodly thousands: but, for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant’s head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before, More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed.

What should he be?

It is myself I mean; in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open’d, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow; and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compar’d With my confineless harms.

Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d In evils to top Macbeth.

I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name: but there’s no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up The cistern of my lust; and my desire All continent impediments would o’erbear, That did oppose my will: better Macbeth Than such an one to reign.

Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been Th’ untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours: you may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, And yet seem cold—the time you may so hoodwink. We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you, to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclin’d.

With this there grows In my most ill-compos’d affection such A staunchless avarice, that, were I king, I should cut off the nobles for their lands; Desire his jewels, and this other’s house: And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more; that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth.

This avarice Sticks deeper; grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will, Of your mere own. All these are portable, With other graces weigh’d.

But I have none: the king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp’rance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them; but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.

O Scotland, Scotland!

If such a one be fit to govern, speak: I am as I have spoken.

Fit to govern? No, not to live.—O nation miserable, With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter’d, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accus’d, And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king. The queen that bore thee, Oft’ner upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself Have banish’d me from Scotland.—O my breast, Thy hope ends here!

Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconcil’d my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me! for even now I put myself to thy direction, and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman; never was forsworn; Scarcely have coveted what was mine own; At no time broke my faith; would not betray The devil to his fellow; and delight No less in truth than life: my first false speaking Was this upon myself. What I am truly, Is thine and my poor country’s to command: Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, Already at a point, was setting forth. Now we’ll together, and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel. Why are you silent?

Such welcome and unwelcome things at once ’Tis hard to reconcile.

Enter a Doctor.

Well; more anon.—Comes the King forth, I pray you?

Ay, sir. There are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure: their malady convinces The great assay of art; but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend.

I thank you, doctor.

[_Exit Doctor._]

What’s the disease he means?

’Tis call’d the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows, but strangely-visited people, All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers: and ’tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace.

Enter Ross.

See, who comes here?

My countryman; but yet I know him not.

My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.

I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers!

Sir, amen.

Stands Scotland where it did?

Alas, poor country, Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call’d our mother, but our grave, where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks, that rent the air, Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy. The dead man’s knell Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken.

O, relation Too nice, and yet too true!

What’s the newest grief?

That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one.

How does my wife?

Why, well.

And all my children?

Well too.

The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace?

No; they were well at peace when I did leave ’em.

Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes’t?

When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour Of many worthy fellows that were out; Which was to my belief witness’d the rather, For that I saw the tyrant’s power afoot. Now is the time of help. Your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses.

Be’t their comfort We are coming thither. Gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out.

Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl’d out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them.

What concern they? The general cause? or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast?

No mind that’s honest But in it shares some woe, though the main part Pertains to you alone.

If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it.

Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard.

Humh! I guess at it.

Your castle is surpris’d; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter’d. To relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murder’d deer, To add the death of you.

Merciful heaven!— What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows. Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

My children too?

Wife, children, servants, all That could be found.

And I must be from thence! My wife kill’d too?

I have said.

Be comforted: Let’s make us med’cines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief.

He has no children.—All my pretty ones? Did you say all?—O hell-kite!—All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop?

Dispute it like a man.

I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man: I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.—Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls: heaven rest them now!

Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.

O, I could play the woman with mine eyes, And braggart with my tongue!—But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front, Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword’s length set him; if he ’scape, Heaven forgive him too!

This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the King. Our power is ready; Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may; The night is long that never finds the day.

ACT V

SCENE I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.

Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting-Gentlewoman.

I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked?

Since his Majesty went into the field, I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon’t, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep.

A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say?

That, sir, which I will not report after her.

You may to me; and ’tis most meet you should.

Neither to you nor anyone; having no witness to confirm my speech.

Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper.

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.

How came she by that light?

Why, it stood by her: she has light by her continually; ’tis her command.

You see, her eyes are open.

Ay, but their sense are shut.

What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands.

It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.

LADY MACBETH.

Yet here’s a spot.

Hark, she speaks. I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.

LADY MACBETH.

Out, damned spot! out, I say! One; two. Why, then ’tis time to do’t. Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

Do you mark that?

LADY MACBETH.

The Thane of Fife had a wife. Where is she now?—What, will these hands ne’er be clean? No more o’ that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all with this starting.

Go to, go to. You have known what you should not.

She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that: heaven knows what she has known.

LADY MACBETH.

Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged.

I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body.

Well, well, well.

Pray God it be, sir.

This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep, who have died holily in their beds.

LADY MACBETH.

Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on’s grave.

Even so?

LADY MACBETH.

To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.

Will she go now to bed?

Foul whisp’rings are abroad. Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician.— God, God, forgive us all! Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night: My mind she has mated, and amaz’d my sight. I think, but dare not speak.

Good night, good doctor.

ACT V, SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane.

Enter, with drum and colours Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox and Soldiers.

The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them; for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man.

Near Birnam wood Shall we well meet them. That way are they coming.

Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?

For certain, sir, he is not. I have a file Of all the gentry: there is Siward’s son And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood.

What does the tyrant?

Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies. Some say he’s mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury: but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper’d cause Within the belt of rule.

Now does he feel His secret murders sticking on his hands; Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love: now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe Upon a dwarfish thief.

Who, then, shall blame His pester’d senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there?

Well, march we on, To give obedience where ’tis truly ow’d: Meet we the med’cine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country’s purge, Each drop of us.

Or so much as it needs To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam.

[_Exeunt, marching._]

ACT V, SCENE III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.

Enter Macbeth, Doctor and Attendants.

Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What’s the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounc’d me thus: “Fear not, Macbeth; no man that’s born of woman Shall e’er have power upon thee.”—Then fly, false thanes, And mingle with the English epicures: The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear, Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear.

Enter a Servant.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon! Where gott’st thou that goose look?

There is ten thousand—

Geese, villain?

Soldiers, sir.

Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver’d boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?

The English force, so please you.

Take thy face hence.

[_Exit Servant._]

Seyton!—I am sick at heart, When I behold—Seyton, I say!—This push Will cheer me ever or disseat me now. I have liv’d long enough: my way of life Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!—

Enter Seyton.

What’s your gracious pleasure?

What news more?

All is confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.

I’ll fight till from my bones my flesh be hack’d. Give me my armour.

’Tis not needed yet.

I’ll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round; Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.— How does your patient, doctor?

Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest.

Cure her of that: Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart?

Therein the patient Must minister to himself.

Throw physic to the dogs, I’ll none of it. Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff: Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.— Come, sir, despatch.—If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.—Pull’t off, I say.— What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear’st thou of them?

Ay, my good lord. Your royal preparation Makes us hear something.

Bring it after me.— I will not be afraid of death and bane, Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.

[_Exeunt all except Doctor._]

Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here.

ACT V, SCENE IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view.

Enter, with drum and colours Malcolm, old Siward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross and Soldiers, marching.

Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe.

We doubt it nothing.

What wood is this before us?

The wood of Birnam.

Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear’t before him. Thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us.

It shall be done.

We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure Our setting down before’t.

’Tis his main hope; For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt, And none serve with him but constrained things, Whose hearts are absent too.

Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership.

The time approaches, That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have, and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must arbitrate; Towards which advance the war.

[_Exeunt, marching._]

ACT V, SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle.

Enter with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton and Soldiers.

Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, “They come!” Our castle’s strength Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up. Were they not forc’d with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home.

[_A cry of women within._]

What is that noise?

It is the cry of women, my good lord.

I have almost forgot the taste of fears. The time has been, my senses would have cool’d To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in’t. I have supp’d full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me.

Enter Seyton.

Wherefore was that cry?

The Queen, my lord, is dead.

She should have died hereafter. There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 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.

Enter a Messenger.

Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do’t.

Well, say, sir.

As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The wood began to move.

Liar, and slave!

Let me endure your wrath, if’t be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove.

If thou speak’st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much.— I pull in resolution; and begin To doubt th’ equivocation of the fiend, That lies like truth. “Fear not, till Birnam wood Do come to Dunsinane;” and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane.—Arm, arm, and out!— If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I ’gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.— Ring the alarum bell!—Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we’ll die with harness on our back.

ACT V, SCENE VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff and their Army, with boughs.

Now near enough. Your leafy screens throw down, And show like those you are.—You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right noble son, Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon’s what else remains to do, According to our order.

Fare you well.— Do we but find the tyrant’s power tonight, Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight.

Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.

ACT V, SCENE VII. The same. Another part of the Plain.

Alarums. Enter Macbeth.

They have tied me to a stake. I cannot fly, But, bear-like I must fight the course.—What’s he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none.

Enter young Siward.

YOUNG SIWARD.

What is thy name?

Thou’lt be afraid to hear it.

YOUNG SIWARD.

No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell.

My name’s Macbeth.

YOUNG SIWARD.

The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear.

No, nor more fearful.

YOUNG SIWARD.

Thou liest, abhorred tyrant. With my sword I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st.

[_They fight, and young Siward is slain._]

Thou wast born of woman. But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born.

Alarums. Enter Macduff.

That way the noise is.—Tyrant, show thy face! If thou be’st slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter’d edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune! And more I beg not.

[_Exit. Alarums._]

Enter Malcolm and old Siward.

This way, my lord;—the castle’s gently render’d: The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight; The noble thanes do bravely in the war, The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do.

We have met with foes That strike beside us.

Enter, sir, the castle.

[_Exeunt. Alarums._]

ACT V, SCENE VIII. The same. Another part of the field.

Enter Macbeth.

Why should I play the Roman fool, and die On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them.

Enter Macduff.

Turn, hell-hound, turn!

Of all men else I have avoided thee: But get thee back; my soul is too much charg’d With blood of thine already.

I have no words; My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out!

[_They fight._]

Thou losest labour: As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed: Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.

Despair thy charm; And let the angel whom thou still hast serv’d Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb Untimely ripp’d.

Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow’d my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope!—I’ll not fight with thee.

Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o’ th’ time. We’ll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, “Here may you see the tyrant.”

I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet, And to be baited with the rabble’s curse. Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”

[_Exeunt fighting. Alarums._]

Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, Thanes and Soldiers.

I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d.

Some must go off; and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Macduff is missing, and your noble son.

Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt: He only liv’d but till he was a man; The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died.

Then he is dead?

Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow Must not be measur’d by his worth, for then It hath no end.

Had he his hurts before?

Ay, on the front.

Why then, God’s soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death: And so his knell is knoll’d.

He’s worth more sorrow, And that I’ll spend for him.

He’s worth no more. They say he parted well and paid his score: And so, God be with him!—Here comes newer comfort.

Enter Macduff with Macbeth’s head.

Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands Th’ usurper’s cursed head: the time is free. I see thee compass’d with thy kingdom’s pearl, That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,— Hail, King of Scotland!

Hail, King of Scotland!

We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves, And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honour nam’d. What’s more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,— As calling home our exil’d friends abroad, That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like queen, Who, as ’tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life;—this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, We will perform in measure, time, and place. So thanks to all at once, and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone.

[_Flourish. Exeunt._]