The Coeval Release

2006-12-29T15:47:00.000-05:00

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from Google Language Tools

2006-01-02T15:12:00.001-05:00

Cool Walrus Blog-NZ Enterprises

2006-01-02T15:12:00.000-05:00

Cool Walrus Blog-NZ Enterprises

2005-12-28T19:42:00.000-05:00

Forbes Fictional 15 richest people.

2005-12-24T11:09:00.000-05:00

Google Maps

Take a look at this satillite pix of Cape Town.

2005-12-20T18:23:00.000-05:00

Click Here to veiw this HUGE pix

Why is it not on the top? Just look!

2005-12-13T15:52:00.000-05:00

Quotes
from Wikiquote.org

Ex nihilo nihil fit.
Translation: Nothing comes out of nothing.
-Rene Descartes

Drop by drop - a whole lake becomes.
-Bulgarian proverb

Superman: I'm Superman. I can do anything
Wonder Woman: Except, apparently, face your fear.

"I will make it legal." Darth Sidious to Nute Gunray
-Star Wars Episode One

"I hated this movie. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it. Hated every simpering stupid vacant audience-insulting moment of it. Hated the sensibility that thought anyone would like it. Hated the implied insult to the audience by its belief that anyone would be entertained by it."
Review of North (1994)
-Robert Ebert

Plato is my friend, Aristotle is my friend, but my greatest friend is truth.
-Isaac Newton

2005-12-10T18:05:00.000-05:00

Our New Look!

Check out our other blogs;
Coeval Release Link Blog
Tasty Dumpling
Chellen Like Magellen
which all have new looks too!

2005-12-10T09:22:00.000-05:00

Coeval Release Genius Council Activity 1

2005-12-09T15:36:00.000-05:00

HEADLINE

2005-12-09T15:06:00.000-05:00

RECOMMENDATIONS & REQUESTS
**********************************

2005-12-09T12:52:00.000-05:00

Here's a cool audio clip from windsquietsound.com

2005-12-09T12:30:00.000-05:00

Number Puzzle

Try to fill in the missing numbers.
The missing numbers are integers between 0 and 11.
The numbers in each row add up to totals to the right.
The numbers in each column add up to the totals along the bottom.
The diagonal lines also add up the totals to the right.

made at PuzzleMaker.

2005-12-09T12:27:00.000-05:00

Coeval Release Genius Council

Congragulations,

Chief Genius Z. has been accepted.

Want to Join?

2005-12-08T16:30:00.000-05:00

Albert Einstein to Franklin D. Roosevelt - August 2, 1945
Author:Albert Einstein
Wikisource:Letters
Note: The letter below, sent to U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt on August 2, 1945, is signed by Albert Einstein but was largely written by Hungarian physicist Leo Szilard. No attempt at original formatting has been attempted.

Page 1

Albert Einstein
Old Grove Rd.
Nassau Point
Peconic, Long Island
August 2nd 1939
F.D. Roosevelt
President of the United States
White House
Washington, D.C.

Sir:
Some recent work by E.Fermi and L. Szilard, which has been communicated to me in manuscript, leads me to expect that the element uranium may be turned into a new and important source of energy in the immediate future. Certain aspects of the situation which has arisen seem to call for watchfulness and, if necessary, quick action on the part of the Administration. I believe therefore that it is my duty to bring to your attention the following facts and recommendations:
In the course of the last four months it has been made probable – through the work of Joliot in France as well as Fermi and Szilard in America – that it may become possible to set up a nuclear chain reaction in a large mass of uranium,by which vast amounts of power and large quantities of new radium-like elements would be generated. Now it appears almost certain that this could be achieved in the immediate future.
This new phenomenon would also lead to the construction of bombs, and it is conceivable – though much less certain – that extremely powerful bombs of a new type may thus be constructed. A single bomb of this type, carried by boat and exploded in a port, might very well destroy the whole port together with some of the surrounding territory. However, such bombs might very well prove to be too heavy for transportation by air.

Page 2

The United States has only very poor ores of uranium in moderate quantities. There is some good ore in Canada and the former Czechoslovakia, while the most important source of uranium is Belgian Congo.
In view of the situation you may think it desirable to have more permanent contact maintained between the Administration and the group of physicists working on chain reactions in America. One possible way of achieving this might be for you to entrust with this task a person who has your confidence and who could perhaps serve in an inofficial capacity. His task might comprise the following:
a) to approach Government Departments, keep them informed of the further development, and put forward recommendations for Government action, giving particular attention to the problem of securing a supply of uranium ore for the United States;
b) to speed up the experimental work, which is at present being carried on within the limits of the budgets of University laboratories, by providing funds, if such funds be required, through his contacts with private persons who are willing to make contributions for this cause, and perhaps also by obtaining the co-operation of industrial laboratories which have the necessary equipment.
I understand that Germany has actually stopped the sale of uranium from the Czechoslovakian mines which she has taken over. That she should have taken such early action might perhaps be understood on the ground that the son of the German Under-Secretary of State, von Weizsäcker, is attached to the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Institut in Berlin where some of the American work on uranium is now being repeated.
Yours very truly,
[signed Albert Einstein]
(Albert Einstein)

2005-12-07T18:49:00.000-05:00

Coeval Release IQ Test
Rules:
-Leave answers as comment. It will not be public. Leave your email to be notified. If no email it put, your score will be posted.
-Time yourself, 2 minutes per question, 12 minutes in all.
-Use no paper etc.
-Do all work in head
1. Name the number of "e"'s in this sentence.
A.6
B.7
C.8
D.10

2.Next # in sequence; 1;5;37;293
A.2344
B.878
C.2341
D.875

3. What number, when mutiplied by 3 equals 51.
A.16
B.18
C.17
D.27

4. You walk 3 steps >, 7 <, 3 >,9 <. How many steps > did you take?
A.-10
B.6
C.-16
D.10

5. A compass's magnet is pointin south. Is this possible?
A.Yes
B.No

6. How many of the letter "I" are in the following sentence?
I. I like to sip indian islaamabian juice.
A.6
B.7
C.8
D.9

2005-12-07T17:36:00.000-05:00

Join the Coeval Release Genius Council!

Rewards:
-Be able to receive fun and challenging things sent via e-mail, or posted on Coeval Release
-Have the honor of being a Coeval Release genius
-Be recognized as Coeval Release Genius Council member
-Win Coeval Release Genius Council Awards for your smarts

How to become a Coeval Release Genius Council Member:
-Note: Only a limited number of submissions will be taken
If in:
Middle or High School

Academic: A- (90-93) or better in all subjects A (94-96) avg.
Non-Academic: B+(86-89) or better in all subjects A- (90-93) avg. or better

College
A- (90-93) or better in all subjects
A (94-96) average or better

Out of School
IQ of 120 or better
on the Coeval Release IQ Test

-In a comment under this post, put your name (does not have to be real) with last name initial, age, and if in 6th, 7th, or 8th grade, etc.
-Then put if in Middle or High School, College, or Out of school.
-Put a grade next to each of the subjects. (if in the grade schools put non-academic grades too, and if taken CR IQ Test put your score)
-Then say if you would like to be notified with CR Genius Council things by e-mail or posts. If e-mail, put e-mail address too.

2005-12-06T16:48:00.000-05:00

Common HTML

-Delete ONE space between each character for the HTML

For a Link

< a h r e f > = " (address) " > (Display) < / a >

-Add < l i > in the beginning an < / l i > to the end to bullet the link

Bold Face

< s t r o n g > (Text) < / s t r o n g >

Italics

< e m > (Text) < / e m >

I have recently dicovered a HTML to create a drop down bar. But, I have not yet figured out how to actualy put links in the drop-down menu.
Here is the code:

< o p t o n s e l e c t e d > - (Title of menu) - < / o p t i o n s e l e c t e d >

2005-12-05T16:06:00.000-05:00

Black Pepper(wikipedia)

2005-12-05T15:16:00.000-05:00

Wikisource
Author:Patrick Henry

Give Me Liberty Or Give Me Death (March 23, 1775)
"No man thinks more highly than I do of the patriotism, as well as the abilities of the very worthy gentlemen who have just addressed the house. But different men often see the same subject in different lights; and, therefore, I hope it will not be thought disrespectful to those gentlemen, if, entertaining as I do opinions of a character very opposite to theirs, I should speak forth my sentiments freely, and without reserve. This is no time for ceremony. The question before the house is one of awful moment to this country. Should I keep back my opinions at such a time, through fear of giving offense, I should consider myself as guilty of treason towards my country, and of an act of disloyalty toward the majesty of heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings.
Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut out eyes against a painful truth -- and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.
I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and the house? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and subjugation -- the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? No sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains, which the British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find that have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on.
We have petitioned -- we have remonstrated -- we have supplicated -- we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and the parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free -- if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending -- if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon, until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained -- we must fight! -- I repeat, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is all that is left us!
They tell us, sir, that we are weak -- unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. Three millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we are base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable -- and let it come! I repeat, sir, let it come!
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, peace, peace -- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! -- I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!"

2005-12-04T14:23:00.000-05:00

Twelfth Night, or What You Will
TWELFTH NIGHT OR, WHAT YOU WILL
from The Complete Works of William Shakespeare at Wikisource.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE (Persons Represented):
ORSINO, Duke of Illyria
SEBASTIAN, brother to Viola
ANTONIO, a sea captain, friend to Sebastian
A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to Viola
VALENTINE, gentleman attending on the Duke
CURIO, gentleman attending on the Duke
SIR TOBY BELCH, uncle to Olivia
SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK
MALVOLIO, steward to Olivia
FABIAN, servant to Olivia
FESTE, a clown, servant to Olivia
OLIVIA, a rich countess
VIOLA, in love with the Duke
MARIA, Olivia's waiting woman
Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants
SCENE: A city in Illyria, and the sea-coast near it
Contents
[hide]
1 ACT I.
1.1 SCENE I. An apartment in the DUKE'S palace.
1.2 SCENE II. The sea-coast.
1.3 SCENE III. OLIVIA'S house.
1.4 SCENE IV. The DUKE'S palace.
1.5 SCENE V. OLIVIA'S house.
2 ACT II.
2.1 SCENE I. The sea-coast
2.2 SCENE II. A street
2.3 SCENE III. OLIVIA'S house
2.4 SCENE IV. The DUKE'S palace
2.5 SCENE V. OLIVIA'S garden.
3 ACT III.
3.1 SCENE I. OLIVIA'S garden.
3.2 SCENE II. OLIVIA'S house
3.3 SCENE III. A street
3.4 SCENE IV. OLIVIA'S garden
4 ACT IV.
4.1 SCENE I. Before OLIVIA'S house.
4.2 SCENE II. OLIVIA'S house.
4.3 SCENE III. OLIVIA'S garden.
5 ACT V.
5.1 SCENE I. Before OLIVIA's house.
[edit]
ACT I.

[edit]
SCENE I. An apartment in the DUKE'S palace.
[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and other LORDS; MUSICIANS attending.]
DUKE.
If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.—
That strain again! —It had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! —Enough; no more;
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.
CURIO.
Will you go hunt, my lord?
DUKE.
What, Curio?
CURIO.
The hart.
DUKE.
Why, so I do, the noblest that I have.
O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first,
Methought she purg'd the air of pestilence!
That instant was I turn'd into a hart;
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds,
E'er since pursue me.
[Enter VALENTINE.]
How now! what news from her?
VALENTINE.
So please my lord, I might not be admitted,
But from her handmaid do return this answer:
The element itself, till seven years' heat,
Shall not behold her face at ample view;
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk
And water once a day her chamber round
With eye-offending brine; all this to season
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh
And lasting in her sad remembrance.
DUKE.
O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame
To pay this debt of love but to a brother,
How will she love when the rich golden shaft
Hath kill'd the flock of all affections else
That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart,
These sovereign thrones, are all supplied, and fill'd—
Her sweet perfections — with one self king!
Away before me to sweet beds of flow'rs;
Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow'rs.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE II. The sea-coast.
[Enter VIOLA, a CAPTAIN, and SAILORS.]
VIOLA.
What country, friends, is this?
CAPTAIN.
This is Illyria, lady.
VIOLA.
And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drown'd. What think you, sailors?
CAPTAIN.
It is perchance that you yourself were sav'd.
VIOLA.
O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be.
CAPTAIN.
True, madam: and, to comfort you with chance,
Assure yourself, after our ship did split,
When you, and those poor number sav'd with you,
Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother,
Most provident in peril, bind himself,
Courage and hope both teaching him the practice,
To a strong mast that liv'd upon the sea;
Where, like Arion on the dolphin's back,
I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves
So long as I could see.
VIOLA.
For saying so, there's gold:
Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
The like of him. Know'st thou this country?
CAPTAIN.
Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born
Not three hours' travel from this very place.
VIOLA.
Who governs here?
CAPTAIN.
A noble duke, in nature as in name.
VIOLA.
What is his name?
CAPTAIN.
Orsino.
VIOLA.
Orsino! I have heard my father name him;
He was a bachelor then.
CAPTAIN.
And so is now, or was so very late;
For but a month ago I went from hence,
And then 'twas fresh in murmur—as, you know,
What great ones do the less will prattle of—
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.
VIOLA.
What's she?
CAPTAIN.
A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since, then leaving her
In the protection of his son, her brother,
Who shortly also died; for whose dear love,
They say, she hath abjur'd the company
And sight of men.
VIOLA.
O that I serv'd that lady,
And might not be delivered to the world,
Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is!
CAPTAIN.
That were hard to compass,
Because she will admit no kind of suit,
No, not the duke's.
VIOLA.
There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.
I prithee, and I'll pay thee bounteously,
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid
For such disguise as haply shall become
The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke:
Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him;
It may be worth thy pains, for I can sing
And speak to him in many sorts of music
That will allow me very worth his service.
What else may hap, to time I will commit;
Only shape thou silence to my wit.
CAPTAIN.
Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be;
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see.
VIOLA.
I thank thee; lead me on.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE III. OLIVIA'S house.
[Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and MARIA.]
SIR TOBY.
What a plague means my niece, to take the death of her brother
thus? I am sure care's an enemy to life.
MARIA.
By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights; your
cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours.
SIR TOBY.
Why, let her except before excepted.
MARIA.
Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of
order.
SIR TOBY.
Confine! I'll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes
are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; and they
be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps.
MARIA.
That quaffing and drinking will undo you. I heard my lady talk of
it yesterday, and of a foolish knight that you brought in one
night here to be her wooer.
SIR TOBY.
Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?
MARIA.
Ay, he.
SIR TOBY.
He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.
MARIA.
What's that to th' purpose?
SIR TOBY.
Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.
MARIA.
Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these ducats; he's a very
fool and a prodigal.
SIR TOBY.
Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys, and
speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and
hath all the good gifts of nature.
MARIA.
He hath indeed, almost natural; for, besides that he's a fool,
he's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a
coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought
among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave.
SIR TOBY.
By this hand, they are scoundrels and subtractors that say so of
him. Who are they?
MARIA.
They that add, moreover, he's drunk nightly in your company.
SIR TOBY.
With drinking healths to my niece. I'll drink to her as long as
there is a passage in my throat and drink in Illyria: he's a
coward and a coystrill that will not drink to my niece
till his brains turn o' th' toe like a parish-top. What, wench!
Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface.
[Enter SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK.]
SIR ANDREW.
Sir Toby Belch; how now, Sir Toby Belch!
SIR TOBY.
Sweet Sir Andrew!
SIR ANDREW.
Bless you, fair shrew.
MARIA.
And you too, sir.
SIR TOBY.
Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
SIR ANDREW.
What's that?
SIR TOBY.
My niece's chambermaid.
SIR ANDREW.
Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance.
MARIA.
My name is Mary, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Good Mistress Mary Accost,—
SIR TOBY.
You mistake, knight; 'accost' is front her, board her, woo her,
assail her.
SIR ANDREW.
By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that
the meaning of 'accost'?
MARIA.
Fare you well, gentlemen.
SIR TOBY.
An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw
sword again.
SIR ANDREW.
And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword
again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand?
MARIA.
Sir, I have not you by th' hand.
SIR ANDREW.
Marry, but you shall have; and here's my hand.
MARIA.
Now, sir, 'thought is free.' I pray you, bring your hand to th'
buttery-bar and let it drink.
SIR ANDREW.
Wherefore, sweet-heart? what's your metaphor?
MARIA.
It's dry, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry.
But what's your jest?
MARIA.
A dry jest, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Are you full of them?
MARIA.
Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends; marry, now I let go
your hand, I am barren.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
O knight, thou lack'st a cup of canary; when did I see thee so
put down?
SIR ANDREW.
Never in your life, I think; unless you see canary put me down.
Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an
ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I
believe that does harm to my wit.
SIR TOBY.
No question.
SIR ANDREW.
And I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow,
Sir Toby.
SIR TOBY.
Pourquoi, my dear knight?
SIR ANDREW.
What is 'pourquoi'? do or not do? I would I had bestow'd that
time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and
bear-baiting! O, had I but follow'd the arts!
SIR TOBY.
Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair.
SIR ANDREW.
Why, would that have mended my hair?
SIR TOBY.
Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature.
SIR ANDREW.
But it becomes me well enough, does't not?
SIR TOBY.
Excellent; it hangs like flax on a distaff.
SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby. Your niece will not be
seen; or, if she be, it's four to one she'll none of me: the
count himself here hard by wooes her.
SIR TOBY.
She'll none o' th' count. She'll not match above her degree,
neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear't. Tut,
there's life in't, man.
SIR ANDREW.
I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' th' strangest mind i'
th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether.
SIR TOBY.
Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight?
SIR ANDREW.
As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my
betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man.
SIR TOBY.
What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?
SIR ANDREW.
Faith, I can cut a caper.
SIR TOBY.
And I can cut the mutton to't.
SIR ANDREW.
And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in
Illyria.
SIR TOBY.
Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore have these gifts a
curtain before 'em? are they like to take dust, like Mistress
Mall's picture? why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and
come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig. What dost
thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the
excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under the star
of a galliard.
SIR ANDREW.
Ay, 't is strong, and it does indifferent well in flame-colour'd
stock. Shall we set about some revels?
SIR TOBY.
What shall we do else? were we not born under Taurus?
SIR ANDREW.
Taurus! That's sides and heart.
SIR TOBY.
No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the caper. Ha! higher!
ha, ha, excellent!
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE IV. The DUKE'S palace.
[Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man's attire.]
VALENTINE.
If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are
like to be much advanc'd. He hath known you but three days, and
already you are no stranger.
VIOLA.
You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in
question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in
his favours?
VALENTINE.
No, believe me.
VIOLA.
I thank you. Here comes the Count.
[Enter DUKE, CURIO, and ATTENDANTS.]
DUKE.
Who saw Cesario, ho?
VIOLA.
On your attendance, my lord; here.
DUKE.
Stand you awhile aloof. Cesario,
Thou know'st no less but all; I have unclasp'd
To thee the book even of my secret soul.
Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her;
Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow
Till thou have audience.
VIOLA.
Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon'd to her sorrow
As it is spoke, she never will admit me.
DUKE.
Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds
Rather than make unprofited return.
VIOLA.
Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then?
DUKE.
O, then unfold the passion of my love,
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith!
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth
Than in a nuncio's of more grave aspect.
VIOLA.
I think not so, my lord.
DUKE.
Dear lad, believe it;
For they shall yet belie thy happy years,
That say thou art a man: Diana's lip
Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe
Is as the maiden's organ, shrill and sound,
And all is semblative a woman's part.
I know thy constellation is right apt
For this affair. Some four or five attend him;
All, if you will; for I myself am best
When least in company. Prosper well in this,
And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord,
To call his fortunes thine.
VIOLA.
I'll do my best
To woo your lady,— [Aside] yet, a barful strife!
Whoe'er I woo, myself would be his wife.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE V. OLIVIA'S house.
[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]
MARIA.
Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my
lips so wide as a bristle may enter in way of thy excuse. My lady
will hang thee for thy absence.
CLOWN.
Let her hang me. He that is well hang'd in this world needs to
fear no colours.
MARIA.
Make that good.
CLOWN.
He shall see none to fear.
MARIA.
A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was born,
of 'I fear no colours.'
CLOWN.
Where, good Mistress Mary?
MARIA.
In the wars; and that may you be bold to say in your foolery.
CLOWN.
Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are
fools, let them use their talents.
MARIA.
Yet you will be hang'd for being so long absent; or to be turn'd
away, is not that as good as a hanging to you?
CLOWN.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and, for turning
away, let summer bear it out.
MARIA.
You are resolute, then?
CLOWN.
Not so, neither; but I am resolv'd on two points.
MARIA.
That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if both break, your
gaskins fall.
CLOWN.
Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would
leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any
in Illyria.
MARIA.
Peace, you rogue, no more o' that. Here comes my lady; make your
excuse wisely, you were best.
[Exit.]
CLOWN.
Wit, and 't be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits
that think they have thee do very oft prove fools; and I, that am
sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man: for what says
Quinapalus? 'Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.'
[Enter LADY OLIVIA with MALVOLIO.]
God bless thee, lady!
OLIVIA.
Take the fool away.
CLOWN.
Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.
OLIVIA.
Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more of you: besides, you grow
dishonest.
CLOWN.
Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend; for,
give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry: bid the
dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer
dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Any thing
that's mended is but patch'd; virtue that transgresses is but
patch'd with sin; and sin that amends is but patch'd with virtue.
If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not,
what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so
beauty's a flower. The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I
say again, take her away.
OLIVIA.
Sir, I bade them take away you.
CLOWN.
Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, cucullus non facit
monachum; that's as much to say as I wear not motley in my brain.
Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.
OLIVIA.
Can you do it?
CLOWN.
Dexteriously, good madonna.
OLIVIA.
Make your proof.
CLOWN.
I must catechize you for it, madonna; good my mouse of virtue,
answer me.
OLIVIA.
Well, sir, for want of other idleness, I'll bide your proof.
CLOWN.
Good madonna, why mourn'st thou?
OLIVIA.
Good fool, for my brother's death.
CLOWN.
I think his soul is in hell, madonna.
OLIVIA.
I know his soul is in heaven, fool.
CLOWN.
The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in
heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen.
OLIVIA.
What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend?
MALVOLIO.
Yes, and shall do till the pangs of death shake him. Infirmity,
that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool.
CLOWN.
God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing
your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will
not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool.
OLIVIA.
How say you to that, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I
saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool that has no
more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's out of
his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him,
he is gagg'd. I protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at
these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' zanies.
OLIVIA.
O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a
distemper'd appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free
disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem
cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allow'd fool, though he
do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man,
though he do nothing but reprove.
CLOWN.
Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak'st well of
fools!
[Re-enter MARIA.]
MARIA.
Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to
speak with you.
OLIVIA.
From the Count Orsino, is it?
MARIA.
I know not, madam; 't is a fair young man, and well attended.
OLIVIA.
Who of my people hold him in delay?
MARIA.
Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.
OLIVIA.
Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman: fie on
him! [Exit MARIA.] Go you, Malvolio: if it be a suit from the
count, I am sick, or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it.
[Exit MALVOLIO.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old,
and people dislike it.
CLOWN.
Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a
fool; whose skull Jove cram with brains! for— here he comes—
[Enter SIR TOBY.]
one of thy kin has a most weak pia mater.
OLIVIA.
By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin?
SIR TOBY.
A gentleman.
OLIVIA.
A gentleman! what gentleman?
SIR TOBY.
'T is a gentleman here — a plague o' these pickle-herring! How
now, sot!
CLOWN.
Good Sir Toby!
OLIVIA.
Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy?
SIR TOBY.
Lechery! I defy lechery. There's one at the gate.
OLIVIA.
Ay, marry, what is he?
SIR TOBY.
Let him be the devil, and he will, I care not; give me faith, say
I. Well, it's all one.
[Exit.]
OLIVIA.
What's a drunken man like, fool?
CLOWN.
Like a drown'd man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat
makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.
OLIVIA.
Go thou and seek the crowner, and let him sit o' my coz; for he's
in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd: go look after him.
CLOWN.
He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the
madman.
[Exit.]
[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]
MALVOLIO.
Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told
him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and
therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he
seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to
speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? he's fortified
against any denial.
OLIVIA.
Tell him he shall not speak with me.
MALVOLIO.
Has been told so; and he says, he'll stand at your door like a
sheriff's post, and be the supporter to a bench, but he'll speak
with you.
OLIVIA.
What kind o' man is he?
MALVOLIO.
Why, of mankind.
OLIVIA.
What manner of man?
MALVOLIO.
Of very ill manner; he'll speak with you, will you or no.
OLIVIA.
Of what personage and years is he?
MALVOLIO.
Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a
squash is before 't is a peascod, or a codling when 't is almost
an apple: 't is with him in standing water, between boy and man.
He is very well-favour'd, and he speaks very shrewishly; one
would think his mother's milk were scarce out of him.
OLIVIA.
Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman.
MALVOLIO.
Gentlewoman, my lady calls.
[Exit.]
[Re-enter MARIA.]
OLIVIA.
Give me my veil; come, throw it o'er my face;
We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.
[Enter VIOLA, and ATTENDANTS.]
VIOLA.
The honourable lady of the house, which is she?
OLIVIA.
Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will?
VIOLA.
Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,— I pray you,
tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her: I
would be loth to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is
excellently well penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it. Good
beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to
the least sinister usage.
OLIVIA.
Whence came you, sir?
VIOLA.
I can say little more than I have studied, and that question's
out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance if you
be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in
my speech.
OLIVIA.
Are you a comedian?
VIOLA.
No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very fangs of malice I
swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house?
OLIVIA.
If I do not usurp myself, I am.
VIOLA.
Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is
yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my
commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then
show you the heart of my message.
OLIVIA.
Come to what is important in't; I forgive you the praise.
VIOLA.
Alas, I took great pains to study it, and 't is poetical.
OLIVIA.
It is the more like to be feign'd; I pray you, keep it in. I
heard you were saucy at my gates, and allow'd your approach
rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be not mad, be
gone; if you have reason, be brief; 't is not that time of moon
with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue.
MARIA.
Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.
VIOLA.
No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little longer. Some
mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind; I am
a messenger.
OLIVIA.
Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy
of it is so fearful. Speak your office.
VIOLA.
It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no
taxation of homage: I hold the olive in my hand; my words are as
full of peace as matter.
OLIVIA.
Yet you began rudely. What are you? what would you?
VIOLA.
The rudeness that hath appear'd in me have I learn'd from my
entertainment. What I am, and what I would, are as secret as
maidenhead; to your ears, divinity; to any other's, profanation.
OLIVIA.
Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.
[Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS.] Now, sir, what is your text?
VIOLA.
Most sweet lady,—
OLIVIA.
A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies
your text?
VIOLA.
In Orsino's bosom.
OLIVIA.
In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?
VIOLA.
To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.
OLIVIA.
O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say?
VIOLA.
Good madam, let me see your face.
OLIVIA.
Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face?
You are now out of your text; but we will draw the curtain, and
show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this
present; is 't not well done?
[Unveiling.]
VIOLA.
Excellently done, if God did all.
OLIVIA.
'T is in grain, sir; 't will endure wind and weather.
VIOLA.
'T is beauty truly blent whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy.
OLIVIA.
O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers
schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried, and every
particle and utensil labell'd to my will: as, item, two lips,
indifferent red; item, two grey eyes, with lids to them; item,
one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise
me?
VIOLA.
I see you what you are, you are too proud;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.
My lord and master loves you; O, such love
Could be but recompens'd, though you were crown'd
The nonpareil of beauty!
OLIVIA.
How does he love me?
VIOLA.
With adorations, fertile tears,
With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.
OLIVIA.
Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him:
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth;
In voices well divulg'd, free, learn'd, and valiant;
And, in dimension and the shape of nature,
A gracious person: but yet I cannot love him;
He might have took his answer long ago.
VIOLA.
If I did love you in my master's flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense;
I would not understand it.
OLIVIA.
Why, what would you?
VIOLA.
Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Halloo your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, 'Olivia!' O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me!
OLIVIA.
You might do much. What is your parentage?
VIOLA.
Above my fortunes, yet my state is well;
I am a gentleman.
OLIVIA.
Get you to your lord;
I cannot love him: let him send no more;
Unless, perchance, you come to me again,
To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well;
I thank you for your pains. Spend this for me.
VIOLA.
I am no fee'd post, lady; keep your purse:
My master, not myself, lacks recompense.
Love make his heart of flint that you shall love;
And let your fervour, like my master's, be
Plac'd in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.
[Exit.]
OLIVIA.
'What is your parentage?'
'Above my fortunes, yet my state is well;
I am a gentleman.' I'll be sworn thou art;
Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,
Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast! Soft, soft!
Unless the master were the man. How now!
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.
What ho, Malvolio!
[Re-enter MALVOLIO.]
MALVOLIO.
Here, madam, at your service.
OLIVIA.
Run after that same peevish messenger,
The county's man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I or not; tell him I'll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him.
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for't. Hie thee, Malvolio.
MALVOLIO.
Madam, I will.
[Exit.]
OLIVIA.
I do I know not what; and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed must be, and be this so!
[Exit.]
[edit]
ACT II.

[edit]
SCENE I. The sea-coast
[Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.]
ANTONIO.
Will you stay no longer; nor will you not that I go with you?
SEBASTIAN.
By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me: the
malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I
shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone: it
were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you.
ANTONIO.
Let me know of you whither you are bound.
SEBASTIAN.
No, sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I
perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty that you will not
extort from me what I am willing to
keep in; therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express
myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,
which I called Roderigo. My father was that Sebastian of
Messaline whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him
myself and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had
been pleas'd, would we had so ended! but you, sir, alter'd that;
for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was
my sister drown'd.
ANTONIO.
Alas the day!
SEBASTIAN.
A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembl'd me, was yet of
many accounted beautiful; but, though I could not, with such
estimable wonder, over-far believe that, yet thus far I will
boldly publish her: she bore mind that envy could not but call
fair. She is drown'd already, sir, with salt water, though I seem
to drown her remembrance again with more.
ANTONIO.
Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.
SEBASTIAN.
O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble!
ANTONIO.
If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant.
SEBASTIAN.
If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom
you have recover'd, desire it not. Fare ye well at once; my bosom
is full of kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my
mother that upon the least occasion more mine eyes will tell
tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino's court; farewell.
[Exit.]
ANTONIO.
The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
I have many enemies in Orsino's court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there.
But, come what may, I do adore thee so
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.
[Exit.]
[edit]
SCENE II. A street
[Enter VIOLA, MALVOLIO following.]
MALVOLIO.
Were you not ev'n now with the Countess Olivia?
VIOLA.
Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arriv'd but
hither.
MALVOLIO.
She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have sav'd me my
pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that
you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none
of him; and one thing more, that you be never so hardy to come
again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord's taking
of this. Receive it so.
VIOLA.
She took the ring of me; I'll none of it.
MALVOLIO.
Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it
should be so return'd. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies
in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.
[Exit.]
VIOLA.
I left no ring with her; what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much
That, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord's ring! why, he sent her none.
I am the man. If it be so, as 't is,
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women's waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? my master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him,
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this? As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master's love;
As I am woman— now, alas the day!—
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe!
O time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me to untie!
[Exit.]
[edit]
SCENE III. OLIVIA'S house
[Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW.]
SIR TOBY.
Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after midnight is to be up
betimes; and 'diluculo surgere,' thou know'st—
SIR ANDREW.
Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know, to be up late is to be
up late.
SIR TOBY.
A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfill'd can. To be up after
midnight, and to go to bed then, is early; so that to go to bed
after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our life
consist of the four elements?
SIR ANDREW.
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and
drinking.
SIR TOBY.
Thou 'rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I
say! a stoup of wine!
[Enter CLOWN.]
SIR ANDREW.
Here comes the fool, i' faith.
CLOWN.
How now, my hearts! did you never see the picture of 'We Three'?
SIR TOBY.
Welcome, ass. Now let's have a catch.
SIR ANDREW.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than
forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing,
as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling
last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians
passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 't was very good, i' faith. I
sent thee sixpence for thy leman; hadst it?
CLOWN.
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no
whipstock; my lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no
bottle-ale houses.
SIR ANDREW.
Excellent! why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now,
a song.
SIR TOBY.
Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have a song.
SIR ANDREW.
There's a testril of me too. If one knight give a—
CLOWN.
Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?
SIR TOBY.
A love-song, a love-song.
SIR ANDREW.
Ay, ay; I care not for good life.
CLOWN. [Sings.]
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
SIR ANDREW.
Excellent good, i' faith.
SIR TOBY.
Good, good.
CLOWN. [Sings.]
What is love? 'T is not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure.
In delay there lies no plenty,
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
SIR ANDREW.
A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
SIR TOBY.
A contagious breath.
SIR ANDREW.
Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.
SIR TOBY.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make
the welkin dance indeed? shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch
that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?
SIR ANDREW.
And you love me, let's do 't; I am dog at a catch.
CLOWN.
By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
SIR ANDREW.
Most certain. Let our catch be, 'Thou knave.'
CLOWN.
'Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight? I shall be constrain'd in
't to call thee knave, knight.
SIR ANDREW.
'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave.
Begin, fool: it begins, 'Hold thy peace.'
CLOWN.
I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
SIR ANDREW.
Good, i' faith! Come, begin.
[Catch sung.]
[Enter MARIA.]
MARIA.
What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not call'd
up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors,
never trust me.
SIR TOBY.
My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio's a
Peg-a-Ramsey, and 'Three merry men be we.'
Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally;
lady! [Sings.] 'There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'
CLOWN.
Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling.
SIR ANDREW.
Ay, he does well enough if he be dispos'd, and so do I too; he
does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
SIR TOBY. [Sings]
'O, the twelfth day of December,'—
MARIA.
For the love o' God, peace!
[Enter MALVOLIO.]
MALVOLIO.
My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit,
manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of
night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak
out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of
voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?
SIR TOBY.
We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up!
MALVOLIO.
Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you
that, though she harbours you as her kins-man, she's nothing
allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your
misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would
please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you
farewell.
SIR TOBY.
'Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone.'
MARIA.
Nay, good Sir Toby.
CLOWN.
'His eyes do show his days are almost done.'
MALVOLIO.
Is 't even so?
SIR TOBY.
'But I will never die.'
CLOWN.
Sir Toby, there you lie.
MALVOLIO.
This is much credit to you.
SIR TOBY.
'Shall I bid him go?'
CLOWN.
'What and if you do?'
SIR TOBY.
'Shall I bid him go, and spare not?'
CLOWN.
'O, no, no, no, no, you dare not.'
SIR TOBY.
Out o' tune, sir? ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou
think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes
and ale?
CLOWN.
Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i' th' mouth too.
SIR TOBY.
Th 'rt i' th' right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A
stoup of wine, Maria!
MALVOLIO.
Mistress Mary, if you priz'd my lady's favour at any thing more
than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule.
She shall know of it, by this hand.
[Exit.]
MARIA.
Go shake your ears.
SIR ANDREW.
'T were as good a deed as to drink when a man's a-hungry, to
challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and
make a fool of him.
SIR TOBY.
Do't, knight: I'll write thee a challenge; or I'll deliver thy
indignation to him by word of mouth.
MARIA.
Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night; since the youth of the
count's was to-day with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For
Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him; if I do not gull him
into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I
have wit enough to lie straight in my bed: I know I can do it.
SIR TOBY.
Possess us, possess us; tell us something of him.
MARIA.
Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of puritan.
SIR ANDREW.
O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog!
SIR TOBY.
What, for being a puritan? thy exquisite reason, dear knight?
SIR ANDREW.
I have no exquisite reason for 't, but I have reason good enough.
MARIA.
The devil a puritan that he is, or any thing constantly, but a
time-pleaser; an affection'd ass, that cons state without book,
and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so
cramm'd, as he thinks, with excellencies, that it is his grounds
of faith that all that look on him love him; and on that vice in
him will my revenge find notable cause to work.
SIR TOBY.
What wilt thou do?
MARIA.
I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love; wherein, by
the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his
gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and
complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I
can write very like my lady, your niece; on a forgotten matter we
can hardly make distinction of our hands.
SIR TOBY.
Excellent! I smell a device.
SIR ANDREW.
I have 't in my nose too.
SIR TOBY.
He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they
come from my niece, and that she's in love with him.
MARIA.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.
SIR ANDREW.
And your horse now would make him an ass.
MARIA.
Ass, I doubt not.
SIR ANDREW.
O, 't will be admirable!
MARIA.
Sport royal, I warrant you; I know my physic will work with him.
I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he
shall find the letter; observe his construction of it. For
this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
Good night, Penthesilea.
SIR ANDREW.
Before me, she's a good wench.
SIR TOBY.
She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me. What o' that?
SIR ANDREW.
I was ador'd once too.
SIR TOBY.
Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money.
SIR ANDREW.
If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
SIR TOBY.
Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' th' end, call me
cut.
SIR ANDREW.
If I do not, never trust me; take it how you will.
SIR TOBY.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack; 't is too late to go to bed
now. Come, knight; come, knight.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE IV. The DUKE'S palace
[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and others.]
DUKE.
Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends.
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song,
That old and antique song we heard last night;
Methought it did relieve my passion much,
More than light airs and recollected terms
Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times.
Come, but one verse.
CURIO.
He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it.
DUKE.
Who was it?
CURIO.
Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool that the lady Olivia's father
took much delight in. He is about the house.
DUKE.
Go seek him out, and play the tune the while.
[Exit CURIO. Music plays]
Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love,
In the sweet pangs of it remember me;
For such as I am all true lovers are,
Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
Save in the constant image of the creature
That is belov'd. How dost thou like this tune?
VIOLA.
It gives a very echo to the seat
Where Love is thron'd.
DUKE.
Thou dost speak masterly:
My life upon 't, young though thou art, thine eye
Hath stay'd upon some favour that it loves;
Hath it not, boy?
VIOLA.
A little, by your favour.
DUKE.
What kind of woman is 't?
VIOLA.
Of your complexion.
DUKE.
She is not worth thee, then. What years, i' faith?
VIOLA.
About your years, my lord.
DUKE.
Too old, by heaven! let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart:
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women's are.
VIOLA.
I think it well, my lord.
DUKE.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.
VIOLA.
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
[Re-enter CURIO and CLOWN.]
DUKE.
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.
CLOWN.
Are you ready, sir?
DUKE.
Ay; prithee, sing.
[Music]
SONG
CLOWN.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!
DUKE.
There 's for thy pains.
CLOWN.
No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir.
DUKE.
I 'll pay thy pleasure, then.
CLOWN.
Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another.
DUKE.
Give me now leave to leave thee.
CLOWN.
Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy
doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I
would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business
might be every thing, and their intent every where; for that 's
it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.
[Exit.]
DUKE.
Let all the rest give place.
[CURIO and ATTENDANTS retire.]
Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty.
Tell her my love, more noble than the world,
Prizes not quantity of dirty lands;
The parts that fortune hath bestow'd upon her,
Tell her, I hold as giddily as fortune;
But 't is that miracle and queen of gems
That Nature pranks her in attracts my soul.
VIOLA.
But if she cannot love you, sir?
DUKE.
I cannot be so answer'd.
VIOLA.
Sooth, but you must.
Say that some lady, as perhaps there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang of heart
As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her;
You tell her so; must she not, then, be answer'd?
DUKE.
There is no woman's sides
Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart; no woman's heart
So big to hold so much; they lack retention.
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite—
No motion of the liver, but the palate—
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much. Make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me
And that I owe Olivia.
VIOLA.
Ay, but I know—
DUKE.
What dost thou know?
VIOLA.
Too well what love women to men may owe;
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter lov'd a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,
I should your lordship.
DUKE.
And what's her history?
VIOLA.
A blank, my lord. She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pin'd in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat, like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We men may say more, swear more; but indeed
Our shows are more than will; for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
DUKE.
But died thy sister of her love, my boy?
VIOLA.
I am all the daughters of my father's house,
And all the brothers too; and yet I know not.
Sir, shall I to this lady?
DUKE.
Ay, that's the theme.
To her in haste; give her this jewel; say,
My love can give no place, bide no denay.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE V. OLIVIA'S garden.
[Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN.]
SIR TOBY.
Come thy ways, Signior Fabian.
FABIAN.
Nay, I'll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be
boil'd to death with melancholy.
SIR TOBY.
Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally
sheep-biter come by some notable shame?
FABIAN.
I would exult, man; you know he brought me out o' favour with my
lady about a bear-baiting here.
SIR TOBY.
To anger him, we'll have the bear again; and we will fool him
black and blue: shall we not, Sir Andrew?
SIR ANDREW.
And we do not, it is pity of our lives.
[Enter MARIA.]
SIR TOBY.
Here comes the little villain.
How now, my metal of India!
MARIA.
Get ye all three into the box-tree; Malvolio's coming down this
walk. He has been yonder i' the sun practising behaviour to his
own shadow this half hour. Observe him, for the love of mockery;
for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him.
Close, in the name of jesting! Lie thou there [throws down a
letter], for here comes the trout that must be caught with
tickling.
[Exit.]
[Enter MALVOLIO.]
MALVOLIO.
'T is but fortune; all is fortune. Maria once told me she did
affect me; and I have heard herself come thus near, that, should
she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses
me with a more exalted respect than any one else that follows
her. What should I think on 't?
SIR TOBY.
Here 's an overweening rogue!
FABIAN.
O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he
jets under his advanc'd plumes!
SIR ANDREW.
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue!
SIR TOBY.
Peace, I say.
MALVOLIO.
To be Count Malvolio!
SIR TOBY.
Ah, rogue!
SIR ANDREW.
Pistol him, pistol him.
SIR TOBY.
Peace, peace!
MALVOLIO.
There is example for't: the lady of the Strachy married the
yeoman of the wardrobe.
SIR ANDREW.
Fie on him, Jezebel!
FABIAN.
O, peace! now he's deeply in; look how imagination blows him.
MALVOLIO.
Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state,—
SIR TOBY.
O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!
MALVOLIO.
Calling my officers about me, in my branch'd velvet gown; having
come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping,—
SIR TOBY.
Fire and brimstone!
FABIAN.
O, peace, peace!
MALVOLIO.
And then to have the humour of state; and, after a demure travel
of regard, telling them I know my place, as I would they should
do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby,—
SIR TOBY.
Bolts and shackles!
FABIAN.
O, peace, peace, peace! now, now.
MALVOLIO.
Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him: I
frown the while; and perchance wind up my watch, or play with
my— some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me,—
SIR TOBY.
Shall this fellow live?
FABIAN.
Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace.
MALVOLIO.
I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an
austere regard of control,—
SIR TOBY.
And does not Toby take you a blow o' the lips, then?
MALVOLIO.
Saying, 'Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece,
give me this prerogative of speech,'—
SIR TOBY.
What, what?
MALVOLIO.
'You must amend your drunkenness.'—
SIR TOBY.
Out, scab!
FABIAN.
Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot.
MALVOLIO.
'Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish
knight,'—
SIR ANDREW.
That's me, I warrant you.
MALVOLIO.
'One Sir Andrew.'
SIR ANDREW.
I knew 't was I; for many do call me fool.
MALVOLIO.
What employment have we here?
[Taking up the letter.]
FABIAN.
Now is the woodcock near the gin.
SIR TOBY.
O, peace! and the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to
him!
MALVOLIO.
By my life, this is my lady's hand: these be her very C's, her
U's, and her T's; and thus makes she her great P's. It is, in
contempt of question, her hand.
SIR ANDREW.
Her C's, her U's, and her T's; why that?
MALVOLIO. [Reads]
To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes:— her very
phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her
Lucrece, with which she uses to seal; 't is my lady. To whom
should this be?
FABIAN.
This wins him, liver and all.
MALVOLIO. [Reads]
Jove knows I love;
But who?
Lips, do not move;
No man must know.
'No man must know.' What follows? the numbers alter'd!
'No man must know.' If this should be thee, Malvolio?
SIR TOBY.
Marry, hang thee, brock!
MALVOLIO. [Reads]
I may command where I adore;
But silence, like a Lucrece knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.
FABIAN.
A fustian riddle!
SIR TOBY.
Excellent wench, say I.
MALVOLIO.
'M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.' Nay, but first, let me see, let
me see, let me see.
FABIAN.
What dish o' poison has she dress'd him!
SIR TOBY.
And with what wing the staniel checks at it!
MALVOLIO.
'I may command where I adore.' Why, she may command me; I serve
her; she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity;
there is no obstruction in this: and the end,— what should that
alphabetical position portend? if I could make that resemble
something in me!— Softly! M, O, A, I,—
SIR TOBY.
O, ay, make up that; he is now at a cold scent.
FABIAN.
Sowter will cry upon 't for all this, though it be as rank as a
fox.
MALVOLIO.
M,— Malvolio; M,—why, that begins my name.
FABIAN.
Did not I say he would work it out? the cur is excellent at
faults.
MALVOLIO.
M,— but then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers
under probation: A should follow, but O does.
FABIAN.
And O shall end, I hope.
SIR TOBY.
Ay, or I 'll cudgel him, and make him cry O!
MALVOLIO.
And then I comes behind.
FABIAN.
Ay, an you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction
at your heels than fortunes before you.
MALVOLIO.
M, O, A, I; this simulation is not as the former; and yet, to
crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these
letters are in my name. Soft! here follows prose.
— [Reads] 'If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am
above thee; but be not afraid of greatness: some are born great,
some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.
Thy Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace
them; and, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy
humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly
with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put
thyself into the trick of singularity: she thus advises thee that
sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and
wish'd to see thee ever cross-garter'd. I say, remember. Go to,
thou art made, if thou desir'st to be so; if not, let me see thee
a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch
Fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with
thee,
THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.
Daylight and champain discovers not more; this is open. I will be
proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I
will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-devise the very
man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for
every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did
commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being
cross-garter'd; and in this she manifests herself to my love, and
with a kind of injunction drives me to these habits of her
liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout,
in yellow stockings, and cross-garter'd, even with the swiftness
of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a
postscript.
[Reads] Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertain'st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles
become thee well; therefore in my presence still smile, dear my
sweet, I prithee.
Jove, I thank thee. I will smile; I will do everything that thou
wilt have me.
[Exit.]
FABIAN.
I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands
to be paid from the Sophy.
SIR TOBY.
I could marry this wench for this device.
SIR ANDREW.
So could I too.
SIR TOBY.
And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest.
SIR ANDREW.
Nor I neither.
FABIAN.
Here comes my noble gull-catcher.
[Re-enter MARIA.]
SIR TOBY.
Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck?
SIR ANDREW.
Or o' mine either?
SIR TOBY.
Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave?
SIR ANDREW.
I' faith, or I either?
SIR TOBY.
Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it
leaves him he must run mad.
MARIA.
Nay, but say true; does it work upon him?
SIR TOBY.
Like aqua-vitae with a midwife.
MARIA.
If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first
approach before my lady. He will come to her in yellow stockings,
and 't is a colour she abhors; and cross-garter'd, a fashion she
detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so
unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as
she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If
you will see it, follow me.
SIR TOBY.
To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit!
SIR ANDREW.
I'll make one too.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
ACT III.

[edit]
SCENE I. OLIVIA'S garden.
[Enter VIOLA, and CLOWN with a tabor.]
VIOLA.
Save thee, friend, and thy music! dost thou live by thy tabor?
CLOWN.
No, sir, I live by the church.
VIOLA.
Art thou a churchman?
CLOWN.
No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my
house, and my house doth stand by the church.
VIOLA.
So thou mayst say, the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell
near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand
by the church.
CLOWN.
You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a cheveril
glove to a good wit; how quickly the wrong side may be turn'd
outward!
VIOLA.
Nay, that's certain; they that dally nicely with words may
quickly make them wanton.
CLOWN.
I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir.
VIOLA.
Why, man?
CLOWN.
Why, sir, her name's a word; and to dally with that word might
make my sister wanton. But, indeed, words are very rascals since
bonds disgrac'd them.
VIOLA.
Thy reason, man?
CLOWN.
Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words; and words are
grown so false, I am loth to prove reason with them.
VIOLA.
I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and car'st for nothing.
CLOWN.
Not so, sir; I do care for something; but in my conscience, sir,
I do not care for you: if that be to care for nothing, sir, I
would it would make you invisible.
VIOLA.
Art not thou the Lady Olivia's fool?
CLOWN.
No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly: she will keep no
fool, sir, till she be married; and fools are as like husbands as
pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger. I am,
indeed, not her fool, but her corrupter of words.
VIOLA.
I saw thee late at the Count Orsino's.
CLOWN.
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun, it shines
everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft
with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your
wisdom there.
VIOLA.
Nay, and thou pass upon me, I'll no more with thee. Hold,
there's expenses for thee.
CLOWN.
Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard!
VIOLA.
By my troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; [Aside]
though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within?
CLOWN.
Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?
VIOLA.
Yes, being kept together and put to use.
CLOWN.
I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida
to this Troilus.
VIOLA.
I understand you, sir; 't is well begg'd.
CLOWN.
The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar.
Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will construe to
them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of
my welkin,— I might say 'element,' but the word is over-worn.
[Exit.]
VIOLA.
This fellow is wise enough to play the fool;
And to do that well craves a kind of wit:
He must observe their mood on whom he jests,
The quality of persons, and the time;
And, like the haggard, check at every feather
That comes before his eye. This is a practice
As full of labour as a wise man's art:
For folly that he wisely shows is fit;
But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.
[Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW.]
SIR TOBY.
Save you, gentleman!
VIOLA.
And you, sir.
SIR ANDREW.
Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
VIOLA.
Et vous aussi; votre serviteur.
SIR ANDREW.
I hope, sir, you are; and I am yours.
SIR TOBY.
Will you encounter the house? my niece is desirous you should
enter, if your trade be to her.
VIOLA.
I am bound to your niece, sir; I mean, she is the list of my
voyage.
SIR TOBY.
Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.
VIOLA.
My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you
mean by bidding me taste my legs.
SIR TOBY.
I mean, to go, sir, to enter.
VIOLA.
I will answer you with gait and entrance. But we are prevented.
[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]
Most excellent accomplish'd lady, the heavens rain odours on you!
SIR ANDREW.
That youth's a rare courtier. 'Rain odours'; well.
VIOLA.
My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and
vouchsafed ear.
SIR ANDREW.
'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and 'vouchsafed': I'll get 'em all three
all ready.
OLIVIA.
Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing.
[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and MARIA.] Give me your hand, sir.
VIOLA.
My duty, madam, and most humble service.
OLIVIA.
What is your name?
VIOLA.
Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.
OLIVIA.
My servant, sir! 'T was never merry world
Since lowly feigning was call'd compliment;
You're servant to the Count Orsino, youth.
VIOLA.
And he is yours, and his must needs be yours;
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.
OLIVIA.
For him, I think not on him; for his thoughts,
Would they were blanks, rather than fill'd with me!
VIOLA.
Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf.
OLIVIA.
O, by your leave, I pray you,
I bade you never speak again of him;
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that
Than music from the spheres.
VIOLA.
Dear lady,—
OLIVIA.
Give me leave, beseech you. I did send,
After the last enchantment you did here,
A ring in chase of you; so did I abuse
Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.
Under your hard construction must I sit,
To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,
Which you knew none of yours; what might you think?
Have you not set mine honour at the stake,
And baited it with all th' unmuzzled thoughts
That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving
Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom,
Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak.
VIOLA.
I pity you.
OLIVIA.
That's a degree to love.
VIOLA.
No, not a grize; for 't is a vulgar proof,
That very oft we pity enemies.
OLIVIA.
Why, then methinks 't is time to smile again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf! [Clock strikes]
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you;
And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man.
There lies your way, due west.
VIOLA.
Then westward-ho! Grace and good disposition
Attend your ladyship!
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?
OLIVIA.
Stay:
I prithee, tell me what thou think'st of me.
VIOLA.
That you do think you are not what you are.
OLIVIA.
If I think so, I think the same of you.
VIOLA.
Then think you right; I am not what I am.
OLIVIA.
I would you were as I would have you be!
VIOLA.
Would it be better, madam, than I am?
I wish it might, for now I am your fool.
OLIVIA.
O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid; love's night is noon.
Cesario, by the roses of the spring,
By maidhood, honour, truth, and every thing,
I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;
But rather reason thus with reason fetter,
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
VIOLA.
By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
And so adieu, good madam; never more
Will I my master's tears to you deplore.
OLIVIA.
Yet come again; for thou perhaps mayst move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE II. OLIVIA'S house
[Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW and FABIAN.]
SIR ANDREW.
No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
SIR TOBY.
Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason.
FABIAN.
You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
SIR ANDREW.
Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the count's
serving-man than ever she bestow'd upon me; I saw 't i' th'
orchard.
SIR TOBY.
Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me that.
SIR ANDREW.
As plain as I see you now.
FABIAN.
This was a great argument of love in her toward you.
SIR ANDREW.
'Slight, will you make an ass o' me?
FABIAN.
I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and
reason.
SIR TOBY.
And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor.
FABIAN.
She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate
you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart,
and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her;
and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should
have bang'd the youth into dumbness. This was look'd for at your
hand, and this was balk'd: the double gilt of this opportunity
you let time wash off, and you are now sail'd into the north of
my lady's opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on
Dutchman's beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable
attempt either of valour or policy.
SIR ANDREW.
And't be any way, it must be with valour; for policy I hate: I
had as lief be a Brownist as a politician.
SIR TOBY.
Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour.
Challenge me the count's youth to fight with him; hurt him in
eleven places: my niece shall take note of it; and assure
thyself, there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in
man's commendation with woman than report of valour.
FABIAN.
There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.
SIR ANDREW.
Will either of you bear me a challenge to him?
SIR TOBY.
Go, write it in a martial hand; be curst and brief; it is no
matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention; taunt
him with the license of ink; if thou thou'st him some
thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in
thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the
bed of Ware in England, set 'em down: go, about it. Let there be
gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no
matter: about it.
SIR ANDREW.
Where shall I find you?
SIR TOBY.
We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.
[Exit SIR ANDREW.]
FABIAN.
This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.
SIR TOBY.
I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so.
FABIAN.
We shall have a rare letter from him; but you'll not deliver 't?
SIR TOBY.
Never trust me, then; and by all means stir on the youth to an
answer. I think oxen and wain-ropes cannot hale them together.
For Andrew, if he were open'd, and you find so much blood in his
liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of th'
anatomy.
FABIAN.
And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage
of cruelty.
SIR TOBY.
Look where the youngest wren of nine comes.
[Enter MARIA.]
MARIA.
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into
stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turn'd heathen, a very
renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be sav'd by
believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of
grossness. He's in yellow stockings.
SIR TOBY.
And cross-garter'd?
MARIA.
Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i' th'
church. I have dogg'd him, like his murderer. He does obey every
point of the letter that I dropp'd to betray him; he does smile
his face into more lines than is in the new map, with the
augmentation of the Indies: you have not seen such a thing as 't
is. I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady
will strike him; if she do, he'll smile, and take 't for a great
favour.
SIR TOBY.
Come, bring us, bring us where he is.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE III. A street
[Enter SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO.]
SEBASTIAN.
I would not by my will have troubled you;
But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
I will no further chide you.
ANTONIO.
I could not stay behind you: my desire,
More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth;
And not all love to see you, though so much
As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,
But jealousy what might befall your travel,
Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,
Unguided and unfriended, often prove
Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,
The rather by these arguments of fear,
Set forth in your pursuit.
SEBASTIAN.
My kind Antonio,
I can no other answer make but thanks,
And thanks, and ever thanks; too oft good turns
Are shuffl'd off with such uncurrent pay:
But, were my worth as is my conscience firm,
You should find better dealing. What's to do?
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?
ANTONIO.
To-morrow, sir; best first go see your lodging.
SEBASTIAN.
I am not weary, and 't is long to night;
I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes
With the memorials and the things of fame
That do renown this city.
ANTONIO.
Would you'd pardon me;
I do not without danger walk these streets.
Once, in a sea-fight, 'gainst the count his galleys
I did some service; of such note indeed,
That, were I ta'en here, it would scarce be answer'd.
SEBASTIAN.
Belike you slew great number of his people.
ANTONIO.
Th' offence is not of such a bloody nature;
Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel
Might well have given us bloody argument.
It might have since been answer'd in repaying
What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake,
Most of our city did: only myself stood out;
For which, if I be lapsed in this place,
I shall pay dear.
SEBASTIAN.
Do not then walk too open.
ANTONIO.
It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here's my purse.
In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,
Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet,
Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge
With viewing of the town; there shall you have me.
SEBASTIAN.
Why I your purse?
ANTONIO.
Haply your eye shall light upon some toy
You have desire to purchase; and your store,
I think, is not for idle markets, sir.
SEBASTIAN.
I'll be your purse-bearer, and leave you
For an hour.
ANTONIO.
To th' Elephant.
SEBASTIAN.
I do remember.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE IV. OLIVIA'S garden
[Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.]
OLIVIA.
I have sent after him; he says he'll come.
How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?
For youth is bought more oft than begg'd or borrow'd.
I speak too loud.
Where's Malvolio? He is sad and civil,
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes.
Where is Malvolio?
MARIA.
He's coming, madam, but in very strange manner.
He is, sure, possess'd, madam.
OLIVIA.
Why, what's the matter? does he rave?
MARIA.
No, madam, he does nothing but smile. Your ladyship were best to
have some guard about you, if he come; for, sure, the man is
tainted in's wits.
OLIVIA.
Go call him hither.
[Exit MARIA.]
I am as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.
[Re-enter MARIA, with MALVOLIO.]
How now Malvolio!
MALVOLIO.
Sweet lady, ho, ho.
OLIVIA.
Smil'st thou?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion.
MALVOLIO.
Sad, lady! I could be sad; this does make some obstruction in the
blood, this cross-gartering; but what of that? if it please the
eye of one, it is with me as the very true
sonnet is, 'Please one, and please all.'
OLIVIA.
Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter with thee?
MALVOLIO.
Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to
his hands, and commands shall be executed; I think we do know the
sweet Roman hand.
OLIVIA.
Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
To bed! ay, sweet-heart, and I'll come to thee.
OLIVIA.
God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so and kiss thy hand so
oft?
MARIA.
How do you, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
At your request! yes; nightingales answer daws.
MARIA.
Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady?
MALVOLIO.
'Be not afraid of greatness'; 'twas well writ.
OLIVIA.
What mean'st thou by that, Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
'Some are born great,'—
OLIVIA.
Ha!
MALVOLIO.
'Some achieve greatness,'—
OLIVIA.
What say'st thou?
MALVOLIO.
'And some have greatness thrust upon them.'
OLIVIA.
Heaven restore thee!
MALVOLIO.
'Remember who commended thy yellow stockings,'—
OLIVIA.
Thy yellow stockings!
MALVOLIO.
'And wish'd to see thee cross-garter'd.'
OLIVIA.
Cross-garter'd!
MALVOLIO.
'Go to, thou art made, if thou desir'st to be so;'—
OLIVIA.
Am I made?
MALVOLIO.
'If not, let me see thee a servant still.'
OLIVIA.
Why, this is very midsummer madness.
[Enter SERVANT.]
SERVANT.
Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino's is return'd: I
could hardly entreat him back: he attends your ladyship's
pleasure.
OLIVIA.
I'll come to him. [Exit SERVANT] Good Maria, let this fellow be
look'd to. Where's my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a
special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half
of my dowry.
[Exeunt OLIVIA and MARIA.]
MALVOLIO.
O, ho! do you come near me now? no worse man than Sir Toby to
look to me! This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him
on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me
to that in the letter. 'Cast thy humble slough,' says she; 'be
opposite with kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang
with arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of
singularity'; and, consequently, sets down the manner how; as, a
sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of
some sir of note, and so forth. I have lim'd her; but it is
Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away
now, 'Let this fellow be look'd to'; fellow! not Malvolio, nor
after my degree, but fellow. Why, every thing adheres together,
that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle,
no incredulous or unsafe circumstance,— what can be said?
Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of
my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be
thank'd.
[Re-enter MARIA, with SIR TOBY and FABIAN.]
SIR TOBY.
Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of
hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I
'll speak to him.
FABIAN.
Here he is, here he is. How is 't with you, sir? how is 't with
you, man?
MALVOLIO.
Go off; I discard you: let me enjoy my private; go off.
MARIA.
Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! did not I tell you?
Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him.
MALVOLIO.
Ah, ha! does she so?
SIR TOBY.
Go to, go to; peace, peace; we must deal gently with him: let me
alone. How do you, Malvolio? how is 't with you? What, man! defy
the devil; consider, he 's an enemy to mankind.
MALVOLIO.
Do you know what you say?
MARIA.
La you, and you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart!
Pray God, he be not bewitch'd! My lady would not lose him for
more than I 'll say.
MALVOLIO.
How now, mistress!
MARIA.
O Lord!
SIR TOBY.
Prithee, hold thy peace; this is not the way: do you not see you
move him? let me alone with him.
FABIAN.
No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the fiend is rough, and
will not be roughly us'd.
SIR TOBY.
Why, how now, my bawcock! how dost thou, chuck?
MALVOLIO.
Sir!
SIR TOBY.
Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man! 't is not for gravity to play
at cherry-pit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier!
MARIA.
Get him to say his prayers; good Sir Toby, get him to pray.
MALVOLIO.
My prayers, minx!
MARIA.
No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness.
MALVOLIO.
Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow things. I am not of
your element; you shall know more hereafter.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
Is 't possible?
FABIAN.
If this were play'd upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an
improbable fiction.
SIR TOBY.
His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man.
MARIA.
Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint.
FABIAN.
Why, we shall make him mad indeed.
MARIA.
The house will be the quieter.
SIR TOBY.
Come, we 'll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is
already in the belief that he 's mad: we may carry it thus, for
our pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of
breath, prompt us to have mercy on him; at which time we will
bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of
madmen. But see, but see.
[Enter SIR ANDREW.]
FABIAN.
More matter for a May morning.
SIR ANDREW.
Here 's the challenge, read it; I warrant there 's vinegar and
pepper in 't.
FABIAN.
Is 't so saucy?
SIR ANDREW.
Ay, is 't, I warrant him; do but read.
SIR TOBY.
Give me. [Reads] Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a
scurvy fellow.
FABIAN.
Good and valiant.
SIR TOBY.
[Reads] Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call
thee so, for I will show thee no reason for 't.
FABIAN.
A good note; that keeps you from the blow of the law.
SIR TOBY.
[Reads] Thou com'st to the lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses
thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter
I challenge thee for.
FABIAN.
Very brief, and to exceeding good sense— less.
SIR TOBY.
[Reads] I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance
to kill me,—
FABIAN.
Good.
SIR TOBY.
[Reads.] Thou kill 'st me like a rogue and a villain.
FABIAN.
Still you keep o' th' windy side of the law; good.
SIR TOBY.
[Reads] Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of our souls!
He may have mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look
to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,
ANDREW AGUECHEEK.
If this letter move him not, his legs cannot; I'll give 't him.
MARIA.
You may have very fit occasion for 't; he is now in some commerce
with my lady, and will by and by depart.
SIR TOBY.
Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the corner of the orchard,
like a bum-baily. So soon as ever thou see'st him, draw; and as
thou drawest, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a
terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twang'd off,
gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have
earn'd him. Away!
SIR ANDREW.
Nay, let me alone for swearing.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
Now will not I deliver his letter; for the behaviour of the young
gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his
employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less:
therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed
no terror in the youth; he will find it comes from a clodpole.
But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth; set upon
Aguecheek a notable report of valour; and drive the gentleman, as
I know his youth will aptly receive it, into a most hideous
opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so
fright them both, that they will kill one another by the look,
like cockatrices.
[Re-enter OLIVIA with VIOLA.]
FABIAN.
Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take leave,
and presently after him.
SIR TOBY.
I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a
challenge.
[Exeunt SIR TOBY, FABIAN, and MARIA.]
OLIVIA.
I have said too much unto a heart of stone,
And laid mine honour too unchary out.
There 's something in me that reproves my fault;
But such a headstrong potent fault it is,
That it but mocks reproof.
VIOLA.
With the same haviour that your passion bears,
Goes on my master's grief.
OLIVIA.
Here, wear this jewel for me, 't is my picture:
Refuse it not; it hath no tongue to vex you:
And I beseech you come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me that I 'll deny,
That honour sav'd may upon asking give?
VIOLA.
Nothing but this,— your true love for my master.
OLIVIA.
How with mine honour may I give him that
Which I have given to you?
VIOLA.
I will acquit you.
OLIVIA.
Well, come again to-morrow; fare thee well.
A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell.
[Exit.]
[Re-enter SIR TOBY and FABIAN.]
SIR TOBY.
Gentleman, God save thee!
VIOLA.
And you, sir.
SIR TOBY.
That defence thou hast, betake thee to 't. Of what nature the
wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not; but thy intercepter,
full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the
orchard-end. Dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation; for
thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly.
VIOLA.
You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me: my
remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done
to any man.
SIR TOBY.
You'll find it otherwise, I assure you. Therefore, if you hold
your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your
opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath can
furnish man withal.
VIOLA.
I pray you, sir, what is he?
SIR TOBY.
He is knight, dubb'd with unhatch'd rapier and on carpet
consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl: souls and
bodies hath he divorc'd three; and his incensement at this moment
is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of
death and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word; give 't or take 't.
VIOLA.
I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the
lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put
quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valour; belike this
is a man of that quirk.
SIR TOBY.
Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of a very competent
injury. Therefore get you on and give him his desire. Back you
shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with
me which with as much safety you might answer him. Therefore on,
or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must, that 's
certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.
VIOLA.
This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this
courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him
is; it is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.
SIR TOBY.
I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my
return.
[Exit.]
VIOLA.
Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?
FABIAN.
I know the knight is incens'd against you, even to a mortal
arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.
VIOLA.
I beseech you, what manner of man is he?
FABIAN.
Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as
you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is,
indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that
you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you
walk towards him? I will make your peace with him, if I can.
VIOLA.
I shall be much bound to you for 't. I am one that had rather go
with sir priest than sir knight; I care not who knows so much of
my mettle.
[Exeunt.]
[Re-enter SIR TOBY, with SIR ANDREW.]
SIR TOBY.
Why, man, he's a very devil; I have not seen such a firago. I had
a pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the
stuck in with such a mortal motion that it is
inevitable; and, on the answer, he pays you as surely as your
feet hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to
the Sophy.
SIR ANDREW.
Pox on 't, I'll not meddle with him.
SIR TOBY.
Ay, but he will not now be pacified; Fabian can scarce hold him
yonder.
SIR ANDREW.
Plague on 't; and I thought he had been valiant and so cunning in
fence, I'd have seen him damn'd ere I 'd have challeng'd him. Let
him let the matter slip, and I 'll give him my horse, gray
Capilet.
SIR TOBY.
I 'll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on 't; this
shall end without the perdition of souls. [Aside] Marry, I 'll
ride your horse as well as I ride you.
[Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA.]
[To FABIAN] I have his horse to take up the quarrel; I have
persuaded him the youth 's a devil.
FABIAN.
He is as horribly conceited of him; and pants and looks pale, as
if a bear were at his heels.
SIR TOBY.
[To VIOLA] There 's no remedy, sir: he will fight with you for 's
oath sake. Marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel,
and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of: therefore
draw, for the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not
hurt you.
VIOLA.
[Aside] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell
them how much I lack of a man.
FABIAN.
Give ground, if you see him furious.
SIR TOBY.
Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy; the gentleman will, for his
honour's sake, have one bout with you; he cannot by the duello
avoid it; but he has promis'd me, as he is a gentleman and a
soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on; to 't.
SIR ANDREW.
Pray God, he keep his oath!
VIOLA.
I do assure you 't is against my will. [They draw]
[Enter ANTONIO.]
ANTONIO.
Put up your sword. If this young gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on me;
If you offend him, I for him defy you.
SIR TOBY.
You, sir! why, what are you?
ANTONIO.
One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.
SIR TOBY.
Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you.
[They draw]
[Enter OFFICERS.]
FABIAN.
O good Sir Toby, hold! here come the officers.
SIR TOBY.
I 'll be with you anon.
VIOLA.
Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please.
SIR ANDREW.
Marry, will I, sir; and, for that I promis'd you, I 'll be as
good as my word; he will bear you easily, and reins well.
1 OFFICER.
This is the man; do thy office.
2 OFFICER.
Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Count Orsino.
ANTONIO.
You do mistake me, sir.
1 OFFICER.
No, sir, no jot; I know your favour well,
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.
Take him away; he knows I know him well.
ANTONIO.
I must obey. [To VIOLA] This comes with seeking you:
But there's no remedy; I shall answer it.
What will you do, now my necessity
Makes me to ask you for my purse? It grieves me
Much more for what I cannot do for you
Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz'd;
But be of comfort.
2 OFFICER.
Come, sir, away.
ANTONIO.
I must entreat of you some of that money.
VIOLA.
What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have show'd me here,
And, part, being prompted by your present trouble,
Out of my lean and low ability
I 'll lend you something. My having is not much;
I 'll make division of my present with you:
Hold, there 's half my coffer.
ANTONIO.
Will you deny me now?
Is 't possible that my deserts to you
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make me so unsound a man
As to upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.
VIOLA.
I know of none;
Nor know I you by voice or any feature.
I hate ingratitude more in a man
Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood.
ANTONIO.
O heavens themselves!
2 OFFICER.
Come, sir, I pray you, go.
ANTONIO.
Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here
I snatch'd one half out of the jaws of death,
Reliev'd him with such sanctity of love,
And to his image, which methought did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
1 OFFICER.
What 's that to us? The time goes by; away!
ANTONIO.
But O how vile an idol proves this god!
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.
In nature there 's no blemish but the mind;
None can be call'd deform'd but the unkind.
Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous evil
Are empty trunks, o'erflourish'd by the devil.
1 OFFICER.
The man grows mad; away with him!
Come, come, sir.
ANTONIO.
Lead me on.
[Exit with OFFICERS.]
VIOLA.
Methinks his words do from such passion fly
That he believes himself; so do not I.
Prove true, imagination, O, prove true,
That I, dear brother, be now ta'en for you!
SIR TOBY.
Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian; we 'll whisper o'er a
couplet or two of most sage saws.
VIOLA.
He nam'd Sebastian. I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such and so
In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament,
For him I imitate. O, if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love!
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare: his
dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity and
denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.
FABIAN.
A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.
SIR ANDREW.
'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him.
SIR TOBY.
Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.
SIR ANDREW.
And I do not,—
[Exit.]
FABIAN.
Come, let's see the event.
SIR TOBY.
I dare lay any money 't will be nothing yet.
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
ACT IV.

[edit]
SCENE I. Before OLIVIA'S house.
[Enter SEBASTIAN and CLOWN.]
CLOWN.
Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?
SEBASTIAN.
Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow;
Let me be clear of thee.
CLOWN.
Well held out, i' faith! No, I do not know you; nor I am not sent
to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name
is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing
that is so is so.
SEBASTIAN.
I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else;
Thou know'st not me.
CLOWN.
Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now
applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great
lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird
thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady; shall
I vent to her that thou art coming?
SEBASTIAN.
I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me.
There 's money for thee; if you tarry longer,
I shall give worse payment.
CLOWN.
By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give
fools money get themselves a good report after fourteen years'
purchase.
[Enter SIR ANDREW, SIR TOBY, and FABIAN.]
SR ANDREW.
Now, sir, have I met you again? there 's for you.
SEBASTIAN.
Why, there 's for thee, and there, and there.
Are all the people mad?
SIR TOBY.
Hold, sir, or I 'll throw your dagger o'er the house.
CLOWN.
This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your
coats for twopence.
[Exit.]
SIR TOBY.
Come on, sir; hold.
SIR ANDREW.
Nay, let him alone: I 'll go another way to work with him; I 'll
have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in
Illyria: though I struck him first, yet it 's no matter for
that.
SEBASTIAN.
Let go thy hand.
SIR TOBY.
Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up
your iron: you are well flesh'd; come on.
SEBASTIAN.
I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now?
If thou dar'st tempt me further, draw thy sword.
SIR TOBY.
What, what? Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this
malapert blood from you.
[Enter OLIVIA.]
OLIVIA.
Hold, Toby; on thy life, I charge thee, hold!
SIR TOBY.
Madam!
OLIVIA.
Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch,
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves,
Where manners ne'er were preach'd! Out of my sight!
Be not offended, dear Cesario.
Rudesby, be gone!
[Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN.]
I prithee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house;
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou thereby
Mayst smile at this: thou shalt not choose but go;
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
SEBASTIAN.
What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
OLIVIA.
Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou'dst be rul'd by me!
SEBASTIAN.
Madam, I will.
OLIVIA.
O, say so, and so be!
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
SCENE II. OLIVIA'S house.
[Enter MARIA and CLOWN.]
MARIA.
Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe
thou art Sir Topas the curate: do it quickly; I 'll call Sir Toby
the whilst.
[Exit.]
CLOWN.
Well, I 'll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in 't; and I
would I were the first that ever dissembl'd in such a gown. I am
not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to
be thought a good student; but to be said an honest man and a
good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say a careful man and a
great scholar. The competitors enter.
[Enter SIR TOBY and MARIA.]
SIR TOBY.
Jove bless thee, master parson!
CLOWN.
Bonos dies, Sir Toby: for, as the old hermit of Prague, that
never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to niece of King
Gorboduc, 'That that is is'; so I, being master parson, am master
parson; for, what is 'that' but 'that,' and 'is' but 'is'?
SIR TOBY.
To him, Sir Topas.
CLOWN.
What, ho, I say, peace in this prison!
SIR TOBY.
The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
MALVOLIO.
[Within] Who calls there?
CLOWN.
Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic.
MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady.
CLOWN.
Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man! talkest thou
nothing but of ladies?
SIR TOBY.
Well said, master parson.
MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, never was man thus wrong'd; good Sir Topas, do not
think I am mad: they have laid me here in hideous darkness.
CLOWN.
Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms;
for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself
with courtesy. Say'st thou that house is dark?
MALVOLIO.
As hell, Sir Topas.
CLOWN.
Why, it hath bay-windows transparent as barricadoes, and the
clerestories toward the south north are as lustrous as ebony; and
yet complainest thou of obstruction?
MALVOLIO.
I am not mad, Sir Topas; I say to you, this house is dark.
CLOWN.
Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no darkness but ignorance;
in which thou art more puzzl'd than the Egyptians in their fog.
MALVOLIO.
I say, this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were
as dark as hell; and I say, there was never man thus abus'd. I am
no more mad than you are; make the trial of it in any constant
question.
CLOWN.
What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl?
MALVOLIO.
That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird.
CLOWN.
What think'st thou of his opinion?
MALVOLIO.
I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion.
CLOWN.
Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness; thou shalt hold
th' opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear
to kill a woodcock lest thou dispossess the soul of thy
grandam. Fare thee well.
MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas, Sir Topas!
SIR TOBY.
My most exquisite Sir Topas!
CLOWN.
Nay, I am for all waters.
MARIA.
Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown; he sees
thee not.
SIR TOBY.
To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou find'st
him; I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be
conveniently deliver'd, I would he were, for I am now so far in
offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this
sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber.
[Exeunt SIR TOBY and MARIA.]
CLOWN.
[Singing] Hey, Robin, jolly Robin,
Tell me how thy lady does.
MALVOLIO.
Fool,—
CLOWN.
My lady is unkind, perdy.
MALVOLIO.
Fool,—
CLOWN.
Alas, why is she so?
MALVOLIO.
Fool, I say,—
CLOWN.
She loves another— Who calls, ha?
MALVOLIO.
Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to
a candle, and pen, ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will
live to be thankful to thee for't.
CLOWN.
Master Malvolio?
MALVOLIO.
Ay, good fool.
CLOWN.
Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?
MALVOLIO.
Fool, there was never man so notoriously abus'd; I am as well in
my wits, fool, as thou art.
CLOWN.
But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your
wits than a fool.
MALVOLIO.
They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers
to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits.
CLOWN.
Advise you what you say; the minister is here. Malvolio,
Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore! endeavour thyself to
sleep, and leave thy vain bibble babble.
MALVOLIO.
Sir Topas!
CLOWN.
Maintain no words with him, good fellow. Who, I, sir? not I, sir.
God be wi' you, good Sir Topas! Marry, amen. I will, sir, I
will.
MALVOLIO.
Fool, fool, fool, I say!
CLOWN.
Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking
to you.
MALVOLIO.
Good fool, help me to some light and some paper. I tell thee, I
am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria.
CLOWN.
Well-a-day that you were, sir!
MALVOLIO.
By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper, and light; and
convey what I will set down to my lady. It shall advantage thee
more than ever the bearing of letter did.
CLOWN.
I will help you to 't. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed,
or do you but counterfeit?
MALVOLIO.
Believe me, I am not; I tell thee true.
CLOWN.
Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will
fetch you light and paper and ink.
MALVOLIO.
Fool, I 'll requite it in the highest degree; I prithee, be gone.
CLOWN. [Singing]
I am gone, sir,
And anon, sir,
I 'll be with you again,
In a trice,
Like to the old Vice,
Your need to sustain;
Who, with dagger of lath,
In his rage and his wrath,
Cries, ah, ha! to the devil:
Like a mad lad,
Pare thy nails, dad;
Adieu, goodman devil.
[Exit.]
[edit]
SCENE III. OLIVIA'S garden.
[Enter SEBASTIAN.]
SEBASTIAN.
This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel 't and see 't;
And though 't is wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet 't is not madness. Where 's Antonio, then?
I could not find him at the Elephant:
Yet there he was; and there I found this credit,
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service;
For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
That this may be some error, but no madness,
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me
To any other trust but that I am mad,
Or else the lady 's mad; yet if 't were so,
She could not sway her house, command her followers,
Take and give back affairs and their dispatch
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing
As I perceive she does. There 's something in 't
That is deceivable. But here the lady comes.
[Enter OLIVIA and PRIEST.]
OLIVIA.
Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well,
Now go with me and with this holy man
Into the chantry by. There, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith;
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace. He shall conceal it
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,
What time we will our celebration keep
According to my birth. What do you say?
SEBASTIAN.
I 'll follow this good man, and go with you;
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.
OLIVIA.
Then lead the way, good father; and heavens so shine
That they may fairly note this act of mine!
[Exeunt.]
[edit]
ACT V.

[edit]
SCENE I. Before OLIVIA's house.
[Enter CLOWN and FABIAN.]
FABIAN.
Now, as thou lov'st me, let me see his letter.
CLOWN.
Good Master Fabian, grant me another request.
FABIAN.
Any thing.
CLOWN.
Do not desire to see this letter.
FABIAN.
This is, to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again.
[Enter DUKE, VIOLA, CURIO, and LORDS.]
DUKE.
Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends?
CLOWN.
Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings.
DUKE.
I know thee well; how dost thou, my good fellow?
CLOWN.
Truly, sir, the better for my foes and the worse for my friends.
DUKE.
Just the contrary; the better for thy friends.
CLOWN.
No, sir, the worse.
DUKE.
How can that be?
CLOWN.
Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me. Now my foes
tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in
the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abus'd:
so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make
your two affirmatives, why, then the worse for my friends and the
better for my foes.
DUKE.
Why, this is excellent.
CLOWN.
By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my
friends.
DUKE.
Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there's gold.
CLOWN.
But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make
it another.
DUKE.
O, you give me ill counsel.
CLOWN.
Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your
flesh and blood obey it.
DUKE.
Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer; there's
another.
CLOWN.
Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the old saying is,
the third pays for all: the triplex, sir, is a good tripping
measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind;
one, two, three.
DUKE.
You can fool no more money out of me at this throw; if you will
let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her
along with you, it may awake my bounty further.
CLOWN.
Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir;
but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the
sin of covetousness: but, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a
nap, I will awake it anon.
[Exit.]
VIOLA.
Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me.
[Enter ANTONIO and OFFICERS .]
DUKE.
That face of his I do remember well;
Yet, when I saw it last, it was besmear'd
As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war.
A baubling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable;
With which such scathful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet
That very envy and the tongue of loss
Cried fame and honour on him. What 's the matter?
1 OFFICER.
Orsino, this is that Antonio
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy;
And this is he that did the Tiger board,
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,
In private brabble did we apprehend him.
VIOLA.
He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side;
But in conclusion put strange speech upon me;
I know not what 't was but distraction.
DUKE.
Notable pirate! thou salt-water thief!
What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies,
Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear,
Hast made thine enemies?
ANTONIO.
Orsino, noble sir,
Be pleas'd that I shake off these names you give me;
Antonio never yet was thief or pirate,
Though, I confess, on base and ground enough,
Orsino's enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:
That most ingrateful boy there by your side,
From the rude sea's enrag'd and foamy mouth
Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was.
His life I gave him, and did thereto ad
My love, without retention or restraint,
All his in dedication; for his sake
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town;
Drew to defend him when he was beset:
Where being apprehended, his false cunning,
Not meaning to partake with me in danger,
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,
And grew a twenty years removed thing
While one would wink; denied me mine own purse,
Which I had recommended to his use
Not half an hour before.
VIOLA.
How can this be?
DUKE.
When came he to this town?
ANTONIO.
To-day, my lord; and for three months before,
No interim, not a minute's vacancy,
Both day and night did we keep company.
[Enter OLIVIA and ATTENDANTS.]
DUKE.
Here comes the countess; now heaven walks on earth.
But for thee, fellow,— fellow, thy words are madness;
Three months this youth hath tended upon me;
But more of that anon. Take him aside.
OLIVIA.
What would my lord, but that he may not have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable?
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
VIOLA.
Madam!
DUKE.
Gracious Olivia,—
OLIVIA.
What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord,—
VIOLA.
My lord would speak; my duty hushes me.
OLIVIA.
If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear
As howling after music.
DUKE.
Still so cruel?
OLIVIA.
Still so constant, lord.
DUKE.
What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars
My soul the faithfull'st off'rings have breath'd out
That e'er devotion tender'd! What shall I do?
OLIVIA.
Even what it please my lord that shall become him.
DUKE.
Why should I not, had I the heart to do it,
Like to th' Egyptian thief at point of death,
Kill what I love?— a savage jealousy
That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this:
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favour,
Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still;
But this your minion, whom I know you love,
And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye,
Where he sits crowned in his master's spite.
Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief;
I 'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love,
To spite a raven's heart within a dove.
VIOLA.
And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.
OLIVIA.
Where goes Cesario?
VIOLA.
After him I love
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More, by all mores, than ere I shall love wife.
If I do feign, you witnesses above,
Punish my life for tainting of my love!
OLIVIA.
Ay me, detested! how am I beguil'd!
VIOLA.
Who does beguile you? who does do you wrong?
OLIVIA.
Hast thou forgot thyself? is it so long?
Call forth the holy father.
DUKE.
Come, away!
OLIVIA.
Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay.
DUKE.
Husband!
OLIVIA.
Ay, husband! can he that deny?
DUKE.
Her husband, sirrah!
VIOLA.
No, my lord, not I.
OLIVIA.
Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear
That makes thee strangle thy propriety.
Fear not, Cesario; take thy fortunes up;
Be that thou know'st thou art, and then thou art
As great as that thou fear'st.
[Enter PRIEST.]
O, welcome, father!
Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,
Here to unfold, though lately we intended
To keep in darkness what occasion now
Reveals before 't is ripe, what thou dost know
Hath newly pass'd between this youth and me.
PRIEST.
A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Seal'd in my function, by my testimony;
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave
I have travell'd but two hours.
DUKE.
O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be
When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow?
Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.
VIOLA.
My lord, I do protest,—
OLIVIA.
O, do not swear!
Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear.
[Enter SIR ANDREW.]
SIR ANDREW.
For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby.
OLIVIA.
What 's the matter?
SIR ANDREW.
Has broke my head across and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb
too; for the love of God, your help! I had rather than forty
pound I were at home.
OLIVIA.
Who has done this, Sir Andrew?
SIR ANDREW.
The count's gentleman, one Cesario; we took him for a coward, but
he 's the very devil incardinate.
DUKE.
My gentleman Cesario?
SIR ANDREW.
'Od's lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for nothing; and
that that I did, I was set on to do 't by Sir Toby.
VIOLA.
Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you.
You drew your sword upon me without cause;
But I bespake you fair, and hurt you not.
SIR ANDREW.
If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me; I think you set
nothing by a bloody coxcomb.
[Enter SIR TOBY and CLOWN.]
Here comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more: but if he had
not been in drink, he would have tickl'd you othergates than he
did.
DUKE.
How now, gentleman! how is 't with you?
SIR TOBY.
That 's all one. Has hurt me, and there 's th' end on 't. Sot,
didst see Dick Surgeon, sot?
CLOWN.
O, he 's drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at
eight i' th' morning.
SIR TOBY.
Then he 's a rogue, and a passy measures pavin. I hate a drunken
rogue.
OLIVIA.
Away with him! Who hath made this havoc with them?
SIR ANDREW.
I 'll help you, Sir Toby, because we 'll be dress'd together.
SIR TOBY.
Will you help? an ass-head and a coxcomb and a knave! a
thin-fac'd knave, a gull!
OLIVIA.
Get him to bed, and let his hurt be look'd to.
[Exeunt CLOWN, FABIAN, SIR TOBY, and SIR ANDREW.]
[Enter SEBASTIAN.]
SEBASTIAN.
I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman
But, had it been the brother of my blood,
I must have done no less with wit and safety.
You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that
I do perceive it hath offended you;
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.
DUKE.
One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons,
A natural perspective, that is and is not!
SEBASTIAN.
Antonio, O my dear Antonio!
How have the hours rack'd and tortur'd me,
Since I have lost thee!
ANTONIO.
Sebastian are you?
SEBASTIAN.
Fear'st thou that, Antonio?
ANTONIO.
How have you made division of yourself?
An apple cleft in two is not more twin
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?
OLIVIA.
Most wonderful!
SEBASTIAN.
Do I stand there? I never had a brother;
Nor can there be that deity in my nature,
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister,
Whom the blind waves and surges have devour'd.
Of charity, what kin are you to me?
What countryman? what name? what parentage?
VIOLA.
Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;
Such a Sebastian was my brother too,
So went he suited to his watery tomb.
If spirits can assume both form and suit,
You come to fright us.
SEBASTIAN.
A spirit I am indeed;
But am in that dimension grossly clad
Which from the womb I did participate.
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,
And say, 'Thrice-welcome, drowned Viola!'
VIOLA.
My father had a mole upon his brow.
SEBASTIAN.
And so had mine.
VIOLA.
And died that day when Viola from her birth
Had numb'red thirteen years.
SEBASTIAN.
O, that record is lively in my soul!
He finished, indeed, his mortal act
That day that made my sister thirteen years.
VIOLA.
If nothing lets to make us happy both
But this my masculine usurp'd attire,
Do not embrace me till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump
That I am Viola: which to confirm,
I 'll bring you to a captain in this town,
Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help
I was preserv'd to serve this noble count.
All the occurrence of my fortune since
Hath been between this lady and this lord.
SEBASTIAN.
[To OLIVIA] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook;
But nature to her bias drew in that.
You would have been contracted to a maid;
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv'd,
You are betroth'd both to a maid and man.
DUKE.
Be not amaz'd; right noble is his blood.
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true,
I shall have share in this most happy wreck.
[To VIOLA] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me.
VIOLA.
And all those sayings will I over-swear;
And all those swearings keep as true in soul
As doth that orbed continent the fire
That severs day from night.
DUKE.
Give me thy hand;
And let me see thee in thy woman's weeds.
VIOLA.
The captain that did bring me first on shore
Hath my maid's garments; he, upon some action,
Is now in durance, at Malvolio's suit,
A gentleman and follower of my lady's.
OLIVIA.
He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither;
And yet, alas, now I remember me,
They say, poor gentleman, he 's much distract.
[Re-enter CLOWN with a letter, and FABIAN.]
A most extracting frenzy of mine own
From my remembrance clearly banish'd his.
How does he, sirrah?
CLOWN.
Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave's end as well as a
man in his case may do. Has here writ a letter to you; I should
have given 't you to-day morning; but as a madman's
epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are
deliver'd.
OLIVIA.
Open 't, and read it.
CLOWN.
Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers the madman.
[Reads] By the Lord, madam,—
OLIVIA.
How now! art thou mad?
CLOWN.
No, madam, I do but read madness: and your ladyship will have it
as it ought to be, you must allow Vox.
OLIVIA.
Prithee, read i' thy right wits.
CLOWN.
So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits is to read thus:
therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear.
OLIVIA.
[To FABIAN] Read it you, sirrah.
FABIAN.
[Reads] By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall
know it; though you have put me into darkness and given your
drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses
as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induc'd me
to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do
myself much right, or you much shame. Think of me as you please.
I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of
my injury. THE MADLY-US'D MALVOLIO.
OLIVIA.
Did he write this?
CLOWN.
Ay, madam.
DUKE.
This savours not much of distraction.
OLIVIA.
See him deliver'd, Fabian; bring him hither.
[Exit FABIAN.]
My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife,
One day shall crown th' alliance on 't, so please you,
Here at my house, and at my proper cost.
DUKE.
Madam, I am most apt t' embrace your offer.
[To VIOLA] Your master quits you; and, for your service done him,
So much against the mettle of your sex,
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,
And since you call'd me master for so long,
Here is my hand; you shall from this time be
Your master's mistress.
OLIVIA.
A sister! you are she.
[Re-enter FABIAN, with MALVOLIO.]
DUKE.
Is this the madman?
OLIVIA.
Ay, my lord, this same.
How now, Malvolio!
MALVOLIO.
Madam, you have done me wrong,
Notorious wrong.
OLIVIA.
Have I, Malvolio? no.
MALVOLIO.
Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter.
You must not now deny it is your hand;
Write from it, if you can, in hand or phrase;
Or say 't is not your seal, not your invention:
You can say none of this. Well, grant it then;
And tell me, in the modesty of honour,
Why you have given me such clear lights of favour,
Bade me come smiling and cross-garter'd to you,
To put on yellow stockings, and to frown
Upon Sir Toby and the lighter people;
And, acting this in an obedient hope,
Why have you suffer'd me to be imprison'd,
Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest,
And made the most notorious geck and gull
That e'er invention play'd on? tell me why.
OLIVIA.
Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing,
Though, I confess, much like the character;
But out of question 't is Maria's hand.
And now I do bethink me, it was she
First told me thou wast mad; then cam'st in smiling,
And in such forms which here were presuppos'd
Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content:
This practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee,
But when we know the grounds and authors of it,
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge
Of thine own cause.
FABIAN.
Good madam, hear me speak;
And let no quarrel nor no brawl to come
Taint the condition of this present hour,
Which I have wond'red at. In hope it shall not,
Most freely I confess myself and Toby
Set this device against Malvolio here,
Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts
We had conceiv'd against him. Maria writ
The letter at Sir Toby's great importance;
In recompense whereof he hath married her.
How with a sportful malice it was follow'd
May rather pluck on laughter than revenge;
If that the injuries be justly weigh'd
That have on both sides pass'd.
OLIVIA.
Alas, poor fool, how have they baffl'd thee!
CLOWN.
Why, 'some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have
greatness thrown upon them.' I was one, sir, in this interlude;
one Sir Topas, sir; but that 's all one. 'By the Lord,
fool, I am not mad'; but do you remember? 'Madam, why laugh you
at such a barren rascal? and you smile not, he 's gagg'd': and
thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
MALVOLIO.
I 'll be reveng'd on the whole pack of you.
[Exit.]
OLIVIA.
He hath been most notoriously abus'd.
DUKE.
Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace.
He hath not told us of the captain yet;
When that is known, and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls. Meantime, sweet sister,
We will not part from hence. Cesario, come;
For so you shall be, while you are a man;
But, when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino's mistress and his fancy's queen.
[Exeunt all but the CLOWN.]
CLOWN. [Sings.]
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
But when I came to man's estate,
With hey, ho, &c.
'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain, &c.
But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, &c.
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain, &c.
But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, &c.
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain, &c.
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, &c.
But that's all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.
[Exit.]
THE END

2005-12-04T09:02:00.000-05:00

Word of the Day
from Dictionary.com

gaucherie \goh-shuh-REE\, noun:
1. A socially awkward or tactless act.
2. Lack of tact; boorishness; awkwardness.

If you find yourself sitting next to an obviously prosperous guest at a dinner party and your host introduces him (it will be a him) as a "successful barrister", you will be guilty of a gaucherie of the crassest kind if you exclaim: "How fascinating! If I promise not to call you Rumpole, will you tell me about your goriest murder trials?"
--Nick Cohen, "Don't leave justice to the judges," New Statesman, December 13, 1999

Here we see the insecure, unattractive woman who at long last has found someone even more insecure and unattractive than herself, calling attention to her companion's gaucherie in order to feel, for once in her life, like the belle of the ball.
--Florence King, "Out and About," National Review, November 9, 1998

2005-12-03T18:36:00.000-05:00

Entry: noahology
Function: noun
Definition: A very hard subject. An academic subject in Noahland.
Word History: Evolved from the Noahlanish word "Noject".
Sample sentence: Bob studied Noahology at the University of Noahnopolis.

made by Noah Bulgaria at Word Central

2005-12-03T17:51:00.000-05:00

from wikisource

Beowulf-Episode I

LO! we have heard the glory of the kings of the Spear-Danes in days gone by, how the chieftains wrought mighty deeds. Often Scyld-Scefing wrested the mead-benches from troops of foes, from many tribes; he made fear fall upon the earls. After he was first found in misery (he received solace for that), he grew up under the heavens, lived in high honour, until each of his neighbours over the whale-road must needs obey him and render tribute. That was a good king! Later a young son was born to him in the court, God sent him for a comfort to the people; He had marked the misery of that earlier time when they suffered long space, lacking a leader. Wherefore the Lord of life, the Ruler of glory, gave him honour in the world.
Beowulf, son of Scyld, was renowned in Scandinavian lands--his repute spread far and wide. So shall a young man bring good to pass with splendid gifts in his father's possession, so that when war comes willing comrades shall stand by him again in his old age, the people follow him. In every tribe a man shall prosper by deeds of love.
Then at the fated hour Scyld, very brave, passed hence into the Lord's protection. Then did they, his dear comrades, bear him out to the shore of the sea, as he himself had besought them, whilst as friend of the Scyldings, loved lord of the land, he held sway long time with speech. There at the haven stood the ring-prowed ship radiant and ready, the chieftain's vessel. Then they layed down the loved lord, the bestower of rings on the bosom of the barge, the famous man by the mast. Many treasures and ornaments were there, brought from afar. I never heard of a sightlier ship adorned with weapons of war and garments of battle, swords and corslets. Many treasures lay on his bosom that were to pass far with him into the power of the flood. No whit less did they furnish him with gifts, with great costly stores, than did those who send him forth in the beginning while he was still a child alone over the waves. Further they set a golden banner high over his head; they let the ocean bear him; they surrendered him to the high sea. Sad was their mind, mournful their mood. Men cannot tell for a truth, counsellors in hall, heroes under the heavens, who received that burden.

2005-12-03T12:01:00.000-05:00

Cricket

Pakistan crushes England in 3rd test!

2005-12-01T17:47:00.000-05:00

Poking around on Merriam Webster, I clicked on a tab saying Merriam Webster for Kids(check out m-w.com, it's cool). Once arriving at Word Central I clicked on Enter the Hallway. Then click to the 2nd floor, then Teachers Lounge. Then under teacher resources, click Who was Noah Webster?. That's me.

2005-12-01T17:17:00.000-05:00

Word of the day
from Merriam Webster Online

scumble • \SKUM-bul\ • verb
1 a : to make (as color or a painting) less brilliant by covering with a thin coat of opaque or semiopaque color b : to apply (a color) in this manner
*2 : to soften the lines or colors of (a drawing) by rubbing lightly

2005-11-30T18:46:00.000-05:00

word of the day
from Merriam Webster Online

xylography • \zye-LAH-gruh-fee\ • noun
: the art of making engravings on wood especially for printing

Example sentence:
"Since the Great Storm of 1987 unexpectedly unleashed so much material for woodcutters and print-makers, interest in xylography has burgeoned." (The Observer, April 3, 1994)

2005-11-30T16:25:00.000-05:00

The Wisdom of the Ancients
from wikisource.org

Contents

1 Preface
2 Chapter I
3 Chapter II
4 Chapter III
5 Chapter IV
6 Chapter V
7 Endnotes

Preface
THE earliest antiquity lies buried in silence and oblivion, excepting the remains we have of it in sacred writ. This silence was succeeded by poetical fables and these, at length, by the writings we now enjoy; so that the concealed and secret learning of the ancients seems separated from the history and knowledge of the following ages by a veil, or partition-wall of fables, interposing between the things that are lost and those that remain.[2]
Many may imagine that I am here entering upon a work of fancy; or amusement, and design to use a poetical liberty, in explaining poetical fables. It is true, fables in general are composed of ductile matter, that may be drawn into great variety by a witty talent or an inventive genius, and be delivered of plausible meanings which they never contained. But this procedure has already been carried to excess; and great numbers, to procure the sanction of antiquity to their own notions and inventions, have miserably wrested and abused the fables of the ancients.
Nor is this only a late or unfrequent practice, but of ancient date and common even to this day. Thus Chrysippus, like an interpreter of dreams, attributed the opinions of the Stoics to the poets of old; and the chemists, at present, more childishly apply the poetical transformations to their experiments of the furnace. And though I have well weighed and considered all this, and thoroughly seen into the levity which the mind indulges for allegories and allusions, yet I cannot but retain a high value for the ancient mythology. And, certainly, it were very injudicious to suffer the fondness and licentiousness of a few to detract from the honour of allegory and parable in general. This would be rash, and almost profane; for, since religion delights in such shadows and disguises, to abolish them were, in a manner, to prohibit all intercourse betwixt things divine and human.
Upon deliberate consideration, my judgment is, that a concealed instruction and allegory was originally intended is many of the ancient fables. This opinion may, in some respect, be owing to the veneration I have for antiquity, but more to observing that some fables discover a great and evident similitude, relation, and connection with the thing they signify, as well in the structure of the fable as in the propriety of the names whereby the persons or actors are characterized; insomuch, that no one could positively deny a sense and meaning to be from the first intended, and purposely shadowed out in them. For who can hear that Fame, after the giants were destroyed, sprung up as their posthumous sister, and not apply it to the clamour of parties and the seditious rumours which commonly fly about for a time upon the quelling of insurrections? Or who can read how the giant Typhon cut out and carried away Jupiter's sinews - which Mercury afterwards stole and again restored to Jupiter - and not presently observe that this allegory denotes strong and powerful rebellions, which cut away from kings their sinews, both of money and authority; and that the way to have them restored is by lenity, affability, and prudent edicts, which soon reconcile, and as it were steal upon the affections of the subject? Or who, upon hearing that memorable expedition of the gods against the giants, when the braying of Silenus's ass greatly contributed in putting the giants to flight, does not clearly conceive that this directly points at the monstrous enterprises of rebellious subjects, which are frequently frustrated and disappointed by vain fears and empty rumours?
Again, the conformity and purport of the names is frequently manifest and self-evident. Thus Metis the wife of Jupiter, plainly signifies counsel; Typhon, swelling; Pan, universality; Nemesis, revenge, &c. Nor is it a wonder, if sometimes a piece of history or other things are introduced, by way of ornament; or if the times of the action are confounded; or if part of one fable be tacked to another; or if the allegory be new turned; for all this must necessarily happen, as the fables were the inventions of men who lived in different ages and had different views; some of them being ancient, others more modern; some having an eye to natural philosophy, and others to morality or civil policy.
It may pass for a farther indication of a concealed and secret meaning, that some of these fables are so absurd and idle in their narration as to show and proclaim an allegory, even afar off. A fable that carries probability with it may be supposed invented for pleasure, or in imitation of history; but those that could never be conceived or related in this way must surely have a different use. For example, what a monstrous fiction is this, that Jupiter should take Metis to wife, and as soon as he found her pregnant eat her up, whereby he also conceived, and out of his head brought forth Pallas armed. Certainly no mortal could, but for the sake of the moral it couches, invent such an absurd dream as this, so much out of the road of thought!
But the argument of most weight with me is this, that many of these fables by no means appear to have been invented by the persons who relate and divulge them, whether Homer, Hesiod, or others; for if I were assured they first flowed from those later times and authors that transmit them to us, I should never expect anything singularly great or noble from such an origin. But who-ever attentively considers the thing, will find that these fables are delivered down and related by those writers, not as matters then first invented and proposed, but as things received and embraced in earlier ages. Besides, as they are differently related by writers nearly of the same ages, it is easily perceived that the relators drew from the common stock of ancient tradition, and varied but in point of embellishment, which is their own. And this principally raises my esteem of these fables, which I receive, not as the product of the age, or invention of the poets, but as sacred relics, gentle whispers, and the breath of better times, that from the traditions of more ancient nations came, at length, into the flutes and trumpets of the Greeks. But if any one shall, notwithstanding this, contend that allegories are always adventitious, or imposed upon the ancient fables, and no way native or genuinely contained in them, we might here leave him undisturbed in that gravity of judgment he affects (though we cannot help accounting it somewhat dull and phlegmatic), and if it were worth the trouble, proceed to another kind of argument.
Men have proposed to answer two different and contrary ends by the use of parable; for parables serve as well to instruct or illustrate as to wrap up and envelop, so that though, for the present, we drop the concealed use, and suppose the ancient fables to be vague, undeterminate things, formed for amusement, still the other use must remain, and can never be given up. And every man, of any learning, must readily allow that this method of instructing is grave, sober, or exceedingly useful, and sometimes necessary in the sciences, as it opens an easy and familiar passage to the human understanding, in all new discoveries that are abstruse and out of the road of vulgar opinions. Hence, in the first ages, when such inventions and conclusions of the human reason as are now trite and common were new and little known, all things abounded with fables, parables, similes, comparisons and allusions, which were not intended to conceal, but to inform and teach, whilst the minds of men continued rude and unpractised in matters of subtilty and speculation, or even impatient, and in a manner uncapable of receiving such things as did not directly fall under and strike the senses. For as hieroglyphics were in use before writing, so were parables in use before arguments. And even to this day, if any man would let new light in upon the human understanding, and conquer prejudice, without raising contests, animosities, opposition, or disturbance, he must still go in the same path, and have recourse to the like method of allegory, metaphor, and allusion.
To conclude, the knowledge of the early ages was either great or happy; great, if they by design made this use of trope and figure; happy, if, whilst they had other views, they afforded matter and occasion to such noble contemplations. Let either be the case, our pains, perhaps, will not be misemployed, whether we illustrate antiquity or things themselves.
The like indeed has been attempted by others; but to speak ingenuously, their great and voluminous labours have almost destroyed the energy, the efficacy, and grace of the thing, whilst being unskilled in nature, and their learning no more than that of commonplace, they have applied the sense of the parables to certain general and vulgar matters, without reaching to their real purport, genuine interpretation, and fill depth. For myself, therefore, I expect to appear new in these common things, because, leaving untouched such as are sufficiently plain and open, I shall drive only at those that are either deep or rich.

Chapter I
Cassandra, or Divination
Explained of too Free and Unseasonable Advice

THE Poets relate, that Apollo, falling in love with Cassandra, was still deluded and put off by her, yet fed with hopes, till she had got from him the gift of prophecy; and having now obtained her end, she flatly rejected his suit. Apollo, unable to recall his rash gift, yet enraged to be outwitted by a girl, annexed this penalty to it, that though she should always prophesy true, she should never be believed; whence her divinations were always slighted, even when she again and again predicted the ruin of her country.

EXPLANATION. - This fable seems invented to express the insignificance of unseasonable advice. For they who are conceited, stubborn, or intractable, and listen not to the instructions of Apollo, the god of harmony, so as to learn and observe the modulations and measures of affairs, the sharps and flats of discourse, the difference between judicious and vulgar ears, and the proper times of speech and silence, let them be ever so intelligent, and ever so frank of their advice, or their counsels ever so good and just, yet all their endeavours, either of persuasion or force, are of little significance, and rather hasten the ruin of those they advise. But, at last, when the calamitous event has made the sufferers feel the effect of their neglect, they too late reverence their advisers, as deep, foreseeing, and faithful prophets.
Of this we have a remarkable instance in Cato of Utica, who discovered afar off, and long foretold, the approaching ruin of his country, both in the first conspiracy, and as it was prosecuted in the civil war between Cæsar and Pompey yet did no good the while, but rather hurt the commonwealth, and hurried on its destruction, which Cicero wisely observed in these words: "Cato, indeed, judges excellently, but prejudices the state; for he speaks as in the commonwealth of Plato, and not as in the dregs of Romulus."

Chapter II
Typhon, or a Rebel
Explained of Rebellion

THE fable runs, that Juno, enraged at Jupiter's bringing forth Pallas without her assistance, incessantly solicited all the gods and goddesses, that she might produce without Jupiter: and having by violence and importunity obtained the grant, she struck the earth, and thence immediately sprung up Typhon, a huge and dreadful monster, whom she committed to the nursing of a serpent. As soon as he was grown up, this monster waged war on Jupiter, and taking him prisoner in the battle, carried him away on his shoulders, into a remote and obscure quarter: and there cutting out the sinews of his hands and feet, he bore them off, leaving Jupiter behind miserably maimed and mangled.
But Mercury afterwards stole these sinews from Typhon, and restored them to Jupiter. Hence, recovering his strength, Jupiter again pursues the monster; first wounds him with a stroke of his thunder, when serpents arose from the blood of the wound: and now the monster being dismayed, and taking to flight, Jupiter next darted Mount Ætna upon him, and crushed him with the weight.

EXPLANATION. - This fable seems designed to express the various fates of kings, and the turns that rebellions sometimes take, in kingdoms. For princes may be justly esteemed married to their states, as Jupiter to Juno : but it sometimes happens, that, being depraved by long wielding of the sceptre, and growing tyrannical, they would engross all to themselves; and slighting the counsel of their senators and nobles, conceive by themselves; that is, govern according to their own arbitrary will and pleasure. This inflames the people, and makes them endeavour to create and set up some head of their own. Such designs are generally set on foot by the secret motion and instigation of the peers and nobles, under whose connivance the common sort are prepared for rising: whence proceeds a swell in the state, which is appositely denoted by the nursing of Typhon. This growing posture of affairs is fed by the natural depravity, and malignant dispositions of the vulgar, which to kings is an envenomed serpent. And now the disaffected, uniting their force, at length break out into open rebellion, which, producing infinite mischiefs, both to prince and people, is represented by the horrid and multiplied deformity of Typhon, with his hundred heads, denoting the divided powers; his flaming mouths, denoting fire and devastation; his girdles of snakes, denoting sieges and destruction; his iron hands, slaughter and cruelty; his eagle's talons, rapine and plunder; his plumed body, perpetual rumours, contradictory accounts, &c. And sometimes these rebellions grow so high, that kings are obliged, as if carried on the backs of the rebels, to quit the throne, and retire to some remote and obscure part of their dominions, with the loss of their sinews, both of money and majesty.
But if now they prudently bear this reverse of fortune, they may, in a short time, by the assistance of Mercury, recover their sinews again; that is, by becoming moderate and affable; reconciling the minds and affections of the people to them, by gracious speeches, and prudent proclamations, which will win over the subject cheerfully to afford new aids and supplies, and add fresh vigour to authority. But prudent and wary princes here seldom incline to try fortune by a war, yet do their utmost, by some grand exploit, to crush the reputation of the rebels: and if the attempt succeeds, the rebels, conscious of the wound received, and distrustful of their cause, first betake themselves to broken and empty threats; like the hissings of serpents; and next, when matters are grown desperate, to flight. And now, when they thus begin to shrink, it is safe and seasonable for kings to pursue them with their forces, and the whole strength of the kingdom; thus effectually quashing and suppressing them, as it were by the weight of a mountain.

Chapter III
Cyclops, or the Ministers of Terror
Explained of Base Court Officers

IT is related that the Cyclops, for their savageness and cruelty, were by Jupiter first thrown into Tartarus, and there condemned to perpetual imprisonment: but that afterwards, Tellus persuaded Jupiter it would be for his service to release them, and employ them in forging thunderbolts. This he accordingly did; and they, with unwearied pains and diligence, hammered out his bolts, and other instruments of terror, with a frightful and continual din of the anvil.
It happened long after, that Jupiter was displeased with Æsculapius, the son of Apollo, for having, by the art of medicine, restored a dead man to life: but concealing, his indignation, because the action in itself was pious and illustrious, he secretly incensed the Cyclops against him, who, without remorse, presently slew him with their thunderbolts: in revenge whereof, Apollo, with Jupiter's connivance, shot them all dead with his arrows.

EXPLANATION. - This fable seems to point at the behaviour of princes, who, having cruel, bloody, and oppressive ministers, first punish and displace them; but afterwards, by the advice of Tellus, that is, some earthly-minded and ignoble person, employ them again, to serve a turn, when there is occasion for cruelty in execution, or severity in exaction: but these ministers being base in their nature, whet by their former disgrace, and well aware of what is expected from them, use double diligence in their office; till, proceeding unwarily, and over-eager to gain favour, they sometimes, from the private nods, and ambiguous orders of their prince, perform some odious or execrable action: When princes, to decline the envy themselves, and knowing they shall never want such tools at their back, drop them, and give them up to the friends and followers of the injured person; thus exposing them, as sacrifices to revenge and popular odium: whence with great applause, acclamations, and good wishes to the prince, these miscreants at last meet with their desert.

Chapter IV
Narcissus, or Self-Love

NARCISSUS is said to have been extremely beautiful and comely, but intolerably proud and disdainful; so that, pleased with himself, and scorning the world, he led a solitary life in the woods; hunting only with a few followers, who were his professed admirers, amongst whom the nymph Echo was his constant attendant. In this method of life it was once his fate to approach a clear fountain, where he laid himself down to rest, in the noonday heat; when, beholding his image in the water, he fell into such a rapture and admiration of himself, that he could by no means be got away, but remained continually fixed and gazing, till at length he was turned into a flower, of his own name, which appears early in the spring, and is consecrated to the infernal deities, Pluto, Proserpine, and the Furies.

EXPLANATION. - This fable seems to paint the behaviour and fortune of those, who, for their beauty, or other endowments, wherewith nature (without any industry of their own) has graced and adorned them, are extravagantly fond of themselves: for men of such a disposition generally affect retirement, and absence from public affairs; as a life of business must necessarily subject them to many neglects and contempts, which might disturb and ruffle their minds whence such persons commonly lead a solitary, private, and shadowy life; see little company, and those only such as highly admire and reverence them; or, like an echo, assent to all they say.
And they who are depraved, and rendered still fonder of themselves by this custom, grow strangely indolent, unactive, and perfectly stupid. The Narcissus, a spring flower, is an elegant emblem of this temper, which at first flourishes, and is talked of, but when ripe, frustrates the expectation conceived of it.
And that this flower should be sacred to the infernal powers, carries out the allusion still farther; because men of this humour are perfectly useless in all respects: for whatever yields no fruit, but passes, and is no more, like the way of a ship in the sea, was by the ancients consecrated to the infernal shades and powers.

Chapter V
The River Styx, or Leagues
Explained of Necessity, in the Oaths or Solemn Leagues of Princes

THE only solemn oath, by which the gods irrevocably obliged themselves, is a well-known thing, and makes a part of many ancient fables. To this oath they did not invoke any celestial divinity, or divine attribute, but only called to witness the river Styx; which, with many meanders, surrounds the infernal court of Dis. For this form alone, and none but this, was held inviolable and obligatory: and the punishment of falsifying it, was that dreaded one of being excluded, for a certain number of years, the table of the gods.

EXPLANATION. - This fable seems invented to show the nature of the compacts and confederacies of princes; which, though ever so solemnly and religiously sworn to, prove but little the more binding for it: so that oaths in this case seem used, rather for decorum, reputation, and ceremony, than for fidelity, security, and effectuating. And though these oaths were strengthened with the bonds of affinity, which are the links and ties of nature, and again, by mutual services and good offices, yet we see all this will generally give way to ambition, convenience, and the thirst of power: the rather, because it is easy for princes, under various specious pretences, to defend, disguise, and conceal their ambitious desires, and insincerity; having no judge to call them to account. There is, however, one true and proper confirmation of their faith, though no celestial divinity; but that great divinity of princes, Necessity; or, the danger of the state; and the securing of advantage.
This necessity is elegantly represented by Styx, the fatal river, that can never be crossed back. And this deity it was, which Iphicrates the Athenian invoked in making a league: and because he roundly and openly avows what most others studiously conceal, it may be proper to give his own words. Observing that the Lacedæmonians were inventing and proposing a variety of securities, sanctions, and bonds of alliance, he interrupted them thus: "There may indeed, my friends, be one bond and means of security between us; and that is, for you to demonstrate you have delivered into our hands, such things as that if you had the greatest desire to hurt us you could not be able." Therefore, if the power of offending be taken away, or if by a breach of compact there be danger of destruction or diminution to the state or tribute, then it is that covenants will be ratified, and confirmed, as it were by the Stygian oath, whilst there remains an impending danger of being prohibited and excluded the banquet of the gods; by which expression the ancients denoted the rights and prerogatives, the affluence and the felicities, of empire and dominion.

Endnotes
^ Varro distributes the ages of the world into three periods; viz. the unknown, the fabulous, and the historical. Of the former we have no accounts but in Scripture; for the second we must consult the ancient poets, such as Hesiod, Homer, or those who wrote still earlier, and then again come back to Ovid, who in his Metamorphoses, seems, in imitation perhaps of some ancient Greek poet, to have intended a complete collection, or a kind of continued and connected history of the fabulous age, especially with regard to changes, revolutions, or transformations.

2005-11-29T19:20:00.000-05:00

Random Dictionary Word

ne-ces-si-tar-i-an-ism noun
Also nec-es-sar-i-an-ism. The doctrine that events are inevitably determined by preceding causes.

(from The American heritage Dictionary of the English Language)

2005-11-29T18:26:00.000-05:00

Cyberpunk(nice name)

2005-11-29T16:39:00.000-05:00

EDITORS NOTE:

Please note the new sections in the sidebar: Forum and Noah's Notebook

2005-11-28T19:03:00.000-05:00

QUOTE
from wikiquote.org

I handle fame by not being famous...I'm not famous to me.
-Bob Marley

2005-11-26T15:34:00.000-05:00

A Midsummer Night's Dream

from Wikisource.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE (Persons Represented):
THESEUS, Duke of Athens.
EGEUS, Father to Hermia.
LYSANDER, in love with Hermia.
DEMETRIUS, in love with Hermia.
PHILOSTRATE, Master of the Revels to Theseus.
QUINCE, the Carpenter.
SNUG, the Joiner.
BOTTOM, the Weaver.
FLUTE, the Bellows-mender.
SNOUT, the Tinker.
STARVELING, the Tailor.
HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, bethrothed to Theseus.
HERMIA, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander.
HELENA, in love with Demetrius.
OBERON, King of the Fairies.
TITANIA, Queen of the Fairies.
PUCK, or ROBIN GOODFELLOW, a Fairy.
PEASBLOSSOM, Fairy.
COBWEB, Fairy.
MOTH, Fairy.
MUSTARDSEED, Fairy.
PYRAMUS, THISBE, WALL, MOONSHINE, LION } Characters in the Interlude performed by the Clowns.
Other Fairies attending their King and Queen.
Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta.
SCENE: Athens, and a wood not far from it.
Contents
[hide]
1 ACT I.
1.1 SCENE I. Athens. A room in the Palace of THESEUS.
1.2 SCENE II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage.
2 ACT II.
2.1 SCENE I. A wood near Athens.
2.2 SCENE II. Another part of the wood.
3 ACT III.
3.1 SCENE I. The Wood. The Queen of Fairies lying asleep.
3.2 SCENE II. Another part of the wood.
4 ACT IV
4.1 SCENE I. The Wood.
4.2 SCENE II. Athens. A Room in QUINCE'S House.
5 ACT V
5.1 SCENE I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of THESEUS.
5.2 SCENE II
[edit]
ACT I.

[edit]
SCENE I. Athens. A room in the Palace of THESEUS.
[Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, and Attendants.]
THESEUS
Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace; four happy days bring in
Another moon; but, oh, methinks, how slow
This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame or a dowager,
Long withering out a young man's revenue.
HIPPOLYTA
Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights;
Four nights will quickly dream away the time;
And then the moon, like to a silver bow
New bent in heaven, shall behold the night
Of our solemnities.
THESEUS
Go, Philostrate,
Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments;
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;
Turn melancholy forth to funerals—
The pale companion is not for our pomp. —
[Exit PHILOSTRATE.]
Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword,
And won thy love doing thee injuries;
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.
[Enter EGEUS, HERMIA, LYSANDER, and DEMETRIUS.]
EGEUS
Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!
THESEUS
Thanks, good Egeus: what's the news with thee?
EGEUS
Full of vexation come I, with complaint
Against my child, my daughter Hermia.—
Stand forth, Demetrius.—My noble lord,
This man hath my consent to marry her:—
Stand forth, Lysander;—and, my gracious duke,
This man hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child.
Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,
And interchang'd love-tokens with my child:
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;
And stol'n the impression of her fantasy
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats,—messengers
Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth;—
With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart;
Turned her obedience, which is due to me,
To stubborn harshness.—And, my gracious duke,
Be it so she will not here before your grace
Consent to marry with Demetrius,
I beg the ancient privilege of Athens,—
As she is mine I may dispose of her:
Which shall be either to this gentleman
Or to her death; according to our law
Immediately provided in that case.
THESEUS
What say you, Hermia? be advis'd, fair maid:
To you your father should be as a god;
One that compos'd your beauties: yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax,
By him imprinted, and within his power
To leave the figure, or disfigure it.
Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.
HERMIA
So is Lysander.
THESEUS
In himself he is:
But, in this kind, wanting your father's voice,
The other must be held the worthier.
HERMIA
I would my father look'd but with my eyes.
THESEUS
Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.
HERMIA
I do entreat your grace to pardon me.
I know not by what power I am made bold,
Nor how it may concern my modesty
In such a presence here to plead my thoughts:
But I beseech your grace that I may know
The worst that may befall me in this case
If I refuse to wed Demetrius.
THESEUS
Either to die the death, or to abjure
For ever the society of men.
Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires,
Know of your youth, examine well your blood,
Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice,
You can endure the livery of a nun;
For aye to be shady cloister mew'd,
To live a barren sister all your life,
Chanting faint hymns to the cold, fruitless moon.
Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood
To undergo such maiden pilgrimage:
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.
HERMIA
So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,
Ere I will yield my virgin patent up
Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke
My soul consents not to give sovereignty.
THESEUS
Take time to pause; and by the next new moon,—
The sealing-day betwixt my love and me
For everlasting bond of fellowship,—
Upon that day either prepare to die
For disobedience to your father's will;
Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would;
Or on Diana's altar to protest
For aye austerity and single life.
DEMETRIUS
Relent, sweet Hermia;—and, Lysander, yield
Thy crazed title to my certain right.
LYSANDER
You have her father's love, Demetrius;
Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.
EGEUS
Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love;
And what is mine my love shall render him;
And she is mine; and all my right of her
I do estate unto Demetrius.
LYSANDER
I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as he,
As well possess'd; my love is more than his;
My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd,
If not with vantage, as Demetrius's;
And, which is more than all these boasts can be,
I am belov'd of beauteous Hermia:
Why should not I then prosecute my right?
Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head,
Made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena,
And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,
Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry,
Upon this spotted and inconstant man.
THESEUS
I must confess that I have heard so much,
And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof;
But, being over-full of self-affairs,
My mind did lose it.—But, Demetrius, come;
And come, Egeus; you shall go with me;
I have some private schooling for you both.—
For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself
To fit your fancies to your father's will,
Or else the law of Athens yields you up,—
Which by no means we may extenuate,—
To death, or to a vow of single life.—
Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?
Demetrius, and Egeus, go along;
I must employ you in some business
Against our nuptial, and confer with you
Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.
EGEUS
With duty and desire we follow you.
[Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, DEMETRIUS, and Train.]
LYSANDER
How now, my love! why is your cheek so pale?
How chance the roses there do fade so fast?
HERMIA
Belike for want of rain, which I could well
Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.
LYSANDER
Ah me! for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth:
But either it was different in blood,—
HERMIA
O cross! Too high to be enthrall'd to low!
LYSANDER
Or else misgraffed in respect of years;—
HERMIA
O spite! Too old to be engag'd to young!
LYSANDER
Or else it stood upon the choice of friends:
HERMIA
O hell! to choose love by another's eye!
LYSANDER
Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
Brief as the lightning in the collied night
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say, Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.
HERMIA
If then true lovers have ever cross'd,
It stands as an edict in destiny:
Then let us teach our trial patience,
Because it is a customary cross;
As due to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs,
Wishes and tears, poor fancy's followers.
LYSANDER
A good persuasion; therefore, hear me, Hermia.
I have a widow aunt, a dowager
Of great revenue, and she hath no child:
From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;
And she respects me as her only son.
There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee;
And to that place the sharp Athenian law
Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then,
Steal forth thy father's house tomorrow night;
And in the wood, a league without the town,
Where I did meet thee once with Helena,
To do observance to a morn of May,
There will I stay for thee.
HERMIA
My good Lysander!
I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow,
By his best arrow, with the golden head,
By the simplicity of Venus' doves,
By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,
And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage queen,
When the false Trojan under sail was seen,—
By all the vows that ever men have broke,
In number more than ever women spoke,—
In that same place thou hast appointed me,
Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee.
LYSANDER
Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.
[Enter HELENA.]
HERMIA
God speed fair Helena! Whither away?
HELENA
Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.
Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair!
Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air
More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
Sickness is catching: O, were favour so,
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.
Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
The rest I'd give to be to you translated.
O, teach me how you look; and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart!
HERMIA
I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.
HELENA
O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!
HERMIA
I give him curses, yet he gives me love.
HELENA
O that my prayers could such affection move!
HERMIA
The more I hate, the more he follows me.
HELENA
The more I love, the more he hateth me.
HERMIA
His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.
HELENA
None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!
HERMIA
Take comfort; he no more shall see my face;
Lysander and myself will fly this place.—
Before the time I did Lysander see,
Seem'd Athens as a paradise to me:
O, then, what graces in my love do dwell,
That he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell!
LYSANDER
Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:
To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold
Her silver visage in the watery glass,
Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,—
A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal,—
Through Athens' gates have we devis'd to steal.
HERMIA
And in the wood where often you and I
Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie,
Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,
There my Lysander and myself shall meet:
And thence from Athens turn away our eyes,
To seek new friends and stranger companies.
Farewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us,
And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius!—
Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight
From lovers' food, till morrow deep midnight.
LYSANDER
I will, my Hermia.
[Exit HERMIA.]
LYSANDER
Helena, adieu:
As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!
[Exit LYSANDER.]
HELENA
How happy some o'er other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;
He will not know what all but he do know.
And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind.
Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste;
Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:
And therefore is love said to be a child,
Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd.
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,
So the boy Love is perjur'd everywhere:
For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne,
He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine;
And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
So he dissolv'd, and showers of oaths did melt.
I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight;
Then to the wood will he to-morrow night
Pursue her; and for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither and back again.
[Exit HELENA.]

[edit]
SCENE II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage.
[Enter SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, QUINCE, and STARVELING.]
QUINCE
Is all our company here?
BOTTOM
You were best to call them generally, man by man,
according to the scrip.
QUINCE
Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is thought
fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the
duke and duchess on his wedding-day at night.
BOTTOM
First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on;
then read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point.
QUINCE
Marry, our play is—The most lamentable comedy and most
cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.
BOTTOM
A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry.—
Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll.—
Masters, spread yourselves.
QUINCE
Answer, as I call you.—Nick Bottom, the weaver.
BOTTOM
Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.
QUINCE
You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.
BOTTOM
What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant?
QUINCE
A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love.
BOTTOM
That will ask some tears in the true performing of it.
If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move
storms; I will condole in some measure. To the rest:—yet my
chief humour is for a tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a
part to tear a cat in, to make all split.
The raging rocks
And shivering shocks
Shall break the locks
Of prison gates:
And Phibbus' car
Shall shine from far,
And make and mar
The foolish Fates.
This was lofty.—Now name the rest of the players.—This is
Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein;—a lover is more condoling.
QUINCE
Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.
FLUTE
Here, Peter Quince.
QUINCE
Flute, you must take Thisby on you.
FLUTE
What is Thisby? a wandering knight?
QUINCE
It is the lady that Pyramus must love.
FLUTE
Nay, faith, let not me play a woman; I have a beard coming.
QUINCE
That's all one; you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as
small as you will.
BOTTOM
An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too:
I'll speak in a monstrous little voice;—'Thisne, Thisne!'—
'Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear; thy Thisby dear! and lady dear!'
QUINCE
No, no, you must play Pyramus; and, Flute, you Thisby.
BOTTOM
Well, proceed.
QUINCE
Robin Starveling, the tailor.
STARVELING
Here, Peter Quince.
QUINCE
Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother.—
Tom Snout, the tinker.
SNOUT
Here, Peter Quince.
QUINCE
You, Pyramus' father; myself, Thisby's father;—Snug,
the joiner, you, the lion's part:—and, I hope, here is a play
fitted.
SNUG
Have you the lion's part written? pray you, if it be, give it
me, for I am slow of study.
QUINCE
You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.
BOTTOM
Let me play the lion too: I will roar that I will do
any man's heart good to hear me; I will roar that I will make the
duke say 'Let him roar again, let him roar again.'
QUINCE
An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the
duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were
enough to hang us all.
ALL
That would hang us every mother's son.
BOTTOM
I grant you, friends, if you should fright the ladies
out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang
us: but I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as
gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any
nightingale.
QUINCE
You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a
sweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's
day; a most lovely gentleman-like man; therefore you must
needs play Pyramus.
BOTTOM
Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in?
QUINCE
Why, what you will.
BOTTOM
I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard,
your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your
French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow.
QUINCE
Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and
then you will play bare-faced.— But, masters, here are your
parts: and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to
con them by to-morrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a
mile without the town, by moonlight; there will we rehearse: for
if we meet in the city, we shall be dogg'd with company, and our
devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties,
such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not.
BOTTOM
We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely
and courageously. Take pains; be perfect; adieu.
QUINCE
At the duke's oak we meet.
BOTTOM
Enough; hold, or cut bow-strings.
[Exeunt.]

[edit]
ACT II.

[edit]
SCENE I. A wood near Athens.
[Enter a FAIRY at One door, and PUCK at another.]
PUCK
How now, spirit! whither wander you?
FAIRY
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours;
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
PUCK
The king doth keep his revels here to-night;
Take heed the Queen come not within his sight.
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,
Because that she, as her attendant, hath
A lovely boy, stol'n from an Indian king;
She never had so sweet a changeling:
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild:
But she perforce withholds the loved boy,
Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy:
And now they never meet in grove or green,
By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,
But they do square; that all their elves for fear
Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there.
FAIRY
Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
Call'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he
That frights the maidens of the villagery;
Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern,
And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck,
You do their work, and they shall have good luck:
Are not you he?
PUCK
Thou speak'st aright;
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile,
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal;
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab;
And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob,
And on her withered dewlap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;
And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe,
And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there.—
But room, fairy, here comes Oberon.
FAIRY
And here my mistress.—Would that he were gone!
[Enter OBERON at one door, with his Train, and TITANIA,
at another, with hers.]
OBERON
Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.
TITANIA
What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence;
I have forsworn his bed and company.
OBERON
Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?
TITANIA
Then I must be thy lady; but I know
When thou hast stol'n away from fairy-land,
And in the shape of Corin sat all day,
Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
Come from the farthest steep of India,
But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love,
To Theseus must be wedded; and you come
To give their bed joy and prosperity.
OBERON
How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania,
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?
Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night
From Perigenia, whom he ravish'd?
And make him with fair Aegle break his faith,
With Ariadne and Antiopa?
TITANIA
These are the forgeries of jealousy:
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook,
Or on the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea
Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land,
Hath every pelting river made so proud
That they have overborne their continents:
The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat; and the green corn
Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard:
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud;
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green,
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable:
The human mortals want their winter here;
No night is now with hymn or carol blest:—
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound:
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;
And on old Hyem's thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries; and the maz'd world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which:
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension:
We are their parents and original.
OBERON
Do you amend it, then: it lies in you:
Why should Titania cross her Oberon?
I do but beg a little changeling boy
To be my henchman.
TITANIA
Set your heart at rest;
The fairy-land buys not the child of me.
His mother was a vot'ress of my order:
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip'd by my side;
And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,
Marking the embarked traders on the flood;
When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive,
And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;
Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait
Following,—her womb then rich with my young squire,—
Would imitate; and sail upon the land,
To fetch me trifles, and return again,
As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;
And for her sake do I rear up her boy:
And for her sake I will not part with him.
OBERON
How long within this wood intend you stay?
TITANIA
Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day.
If you will patiently dance in our round,
And see our moonlight revels, go with us;
If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.
OBERON
Give me that boy and I will go with thee.
TITANIA
Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away:
We shall chide downright if I longer stay.
[Exit TITANIA with her Train.]
OBERON
Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.—
My gentle Puck, come hither: thou remember'st
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back,
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,
That the rude sea grew civil at her song,
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres
To hear the sea-maid's music.
PUCK
I remember.
OBERON
That very time I saw,—but thou couldst not,—
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid, all arm'd: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal, throned by the west;
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon;
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,—
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,—
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.
PUCK
I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.
[Exit PUCK.]
OBERON
Having once this juice,
I'll watch Titania when she is asleep,
And drop the liquor of it in her eyes:
The next thing then she waking looks upon,—
Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,
On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,—
She shall pursue it with the soul of love.
And ere I take this charm from off her sight,—
As I can take it with another herb,
I'll make her render up her page to me.
But who comes here? I am invisible;
And I will overhear their conference.
[Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA following him.]
DEMETRIUS
I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.
Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?
The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me.
Thou told'st me they were stol'n into this wood,
And here am I, and wode within this wood,
Because I cannot meet with Hermia.
Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.
HELENA
You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant;
But yet you draw not iron, for my heart
Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw,
And I shall have no power to follow you.
DEMETRIUS
Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?
Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth
Tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you?
HELENA
And even for that do I love you the more.
I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,
The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:
Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,
Unworthy as I am, to follow you.
What worser place can I beg in your love,
And yet a place of high respect with me,—
Than to be used as you use your dog?
DEMETRIUS
Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit;
For I am sick when I do look on thee.
HELENA
And I am sick when I look not on you.
DEMETRIUS
You do impeach your modesty too much,
To leave the city, and commit yourself
Into the hands of one that loves you not;
To trust the opportunity of night,
And the ill counsel of a desert place,
With the rich worth of your virginity.
HELENA
Your virtue is my privilege for that.
It is not night when I do see your face,
Therefore I think I am not in the night;
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company;
For you, in my respect, are all the world:
Then how can it be said I am alone
When all the world is here to look on me?
DEMETRIUS
I'll run from thee, and hide me in the brakes,
And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.
HELENA
The wildest hath not such a heart as you.
Run when you will, the story shall be chang'd;
Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;
The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind
Makes speed to catch the tiger,—bootless speed,
When cowardice pursues and valour flies.
DEMETRIUS
I will not stay thy questions; let me go:
Or, if thou follow me, do not believe
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.
HELENA
Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex:
We cannot fight for love as men may do:
We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo.
I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell,
To die upon the hand I love so well.
[Exeunt DEMETRIUS and HELENA.]
OBERON
Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove,
Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.—
[Re-enter PUCK.]
Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.
PUCK
Ay, there it is.
OBERON
I pray thee give it me.
I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows;
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:
A sweet Athenian lady is in love
With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;
But do it when the next thing he espies
May be the lady: thou shalt know the man
By the Athenian garments he hath on.
Effect it with some care, that he may prove
More fond on her than she upon her love:
And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.
PUCK
Fear not, my lord; your servant shall do so.
[Exeunt.]

[edit]
SCENE II. Another part of the wood.
[Enter TITANIA, with her Train.]
TITANIA
Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;
Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;
Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds;
Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats; and some keep back
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;
Then to your offices, and let me rest.
SONG.
I.
FIRST FAIRY
You spotted snakes, with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen:
CHORUS.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby:
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:
Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So good-night, with lullaby.
II.
SECOND FAIRY
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence;
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail do no offence.
CHORUS
Philomel with melody, &c.

FIRST FAIRY
Hence away; now all is well.
One, aloof, stand sentinel.
[Exeunt Fairies. TITANIA sleeps.]
[Enter OBERON.]
OBERON
What thou seest when thou dost wake,
[Squeezes the flower on TITANIA'S eyelids.]
Do it for thy true-love take;
Love and languish for his sake;
Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,
Pard, or boar with bristled hair,
In thy eye that shall appear
When thou wak'st, it is thy dear;
Wake when some vile thing is near.
[Exit.]
[Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA.]
LYSANDER
Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;
And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way;
We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,
And tarry for the comfort of the day.
HERMIA
Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed,
For I upon this bank will rest my head.
LYSANDER
One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;
One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.
HERMIA
Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,
Lie farther off yet, do not lie so near.
LYSANDER
O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence;
Love takes the meaning in love's conference.
I mean that my heart unto yours is knit;
So that but one heart we can make of it:
Two bosoms interchained with an oath;
So then two bosoms and a single troth.
Then by your side no bed-room me deny;
For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.
HERMIA
Lysander riddles very prettily:—
Now much beshrew my manners and my pride
If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied!
But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy
Lie further off; in human modesty,
Such separation as may well be said
Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid:
So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend:
Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!
LYSANDER
Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I;
And then end life when I end loyalty!
Here is my bed: Sleep give thee all his rest!
HERMIA
With half that wish the wisher's eyes be pressed!
[They sleep.]
[Enter PUCK.]
PUCK
Through the forest have I gone,
But Athenian found I none,
On whose eyes I might approve
This flower's force in stirring love.
Night and silence! Who is here?
Weeds of Athens he doth wear:
This is he, my master said,
Despised the Athenian maid;
And here the maiden, sleeping sound,
On the dank and dirty ground.
Pretty soul! she durst not lie
Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.
Churl, upon thy eyes I throw
All the power this charm doth owe;
When thou wak'st let love forbid
Sleep his seat on thy eyelid:
So awake when I am gone;
For I must now to Oberon.
[Exit.]
[Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running.]
HELENA
Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.
DEMETRIUS
I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.
HELENA
O, wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so.
DEMETRIUS.
Stay on thy peril; I alone will go.
[Exit DEMETRIUS.]
HELENA
O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies,
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:
If so, my eyes are oftener wash'd than hers.
No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;
For beasts that meet me run away for fear:
Therefore no marvel though Demetrius
Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne?—
But who is here?—Lysander! on the ground!
Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.
Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.
LYSANDER
[Waking.]
And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.
Transparent Helena! Nature shows art,
That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.
Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word
Is that vile name to perish on my sword!
HELENA
Do not say so, Lysander; say not so:
What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though?
Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content.
LYSANDER.
Content with Hermia? No: I do repent
The tedious minutes I with her have spent.
Not Hermia but Helena I love:
Who will not change a raven for a dove?
The will of man is by his reason sway'd;
And reason says you are the worthier maid.
Things growing are not ripe until their season;
So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;
And touching now the point of human skill,
Reason becomes the marshal to my will,
And leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook
Love's stories, written in love's richest book.
HELENA
Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?
When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?
Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,
That I did never, no, nor never can
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,
But you must flout my insufficiency?
Good troth, you do me wrong,—good sooth, you do—
In such disdainful manner me to woo.
But fare you well: perforce I must confess,
I thought you lord of more true gentleness.
O, that a lady of one man refus'd
Should of another therefore be abus'd!
[Exit.]
LYSANDER
She sees not Hermia:—Hermia, sleep thou there;
And never mayst thou come Lysander near!
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings;
Or, as the heresies that men do leave
Are hated most of those they did deceive;
So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,
Of all be hated, but the most of me!
And, all my powers, address your love and might
To honour Helen, and to be her knight!
[Exit.]
HERMIA
[Starting.]
Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast!
Ay me, for pity!—What a dream was here!
Lysander, look how I do quake with fear!
Methought a serpent eat my heart away,
And you sat smiling at his cruel prey.—
Lysander! what, removed? Lysander! lord!
What, out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word?
Alack, where are you? speak, an if you hear;
Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.
No?—then I well perceive you are not nigh:
Either death or you I'll find immediately.
[Exit.]

[edit]
ACT III.

[edit]
SCENE I. The Wood. The Queen of Fairies lying asleep.
[Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING.]
BOTTOM
Are we all met?
QUINCE
Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place for our
rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn
brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as we will
do it before the duke.
BOTTOM
Peter Quince,—
QUINCE
What sayest thou, bully Bottom?
BOTTOM
There are things in this comedy of 'Pyramus and Thisby' that
will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill
himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that?
SNOUT
By'r lakin, a parlous fear.
STARVELING
I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done.
BOTTOM
Not a whit: I have a device to make all well. Write me a
prologue; and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm
with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for
the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not
Pyramus but Bottom the weaver: this will put them out of fear.
QUINCE
Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be
written in eight and six.
BOTTOM
No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight.
SNOUT
Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion?
STARVELING
I fear it, I promise you.
BOTTOM
Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves: to bring in,
God shield us! a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing:
for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living;
and we ought to look to it.
SNOUT
Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.
BOTTOM
Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen
through the lion's neck; and he himself must speak through,
saying thus, or to the same defect,—'Ladies,' or, 'Fair ladies, I
would wish you, or, I would request you, or, I would entreat you,
not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours. If you think I
come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such
thing; I am a man as other men are:'—and there, indeed, let him
name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner.
QUINCE
Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things; that
is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber: for, you know,
Pyramus and Thisbe meet by moonlight.
SNOUT
Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?
BOTTOM
A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanack; find out
moonshine, find out moonshine.
QUINCE
Yes, it doth shine that night.
BOTTOM
Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber-window,
where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement.
QUINCE
Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a
lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person
of moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a
wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the
story, did talk through the chink of a wall.
SNOUT
You can never bring in a wall.—What say you, Bottom?
BOTTOM
Some man or other must present wall: and let him have
some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to
signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that
cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.
QUINCE
If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every
mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin:
when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake; and so
every one according to his cue.
[Enter PUCK behind.]
PUCK
What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here,
So near the cradle of the fairy queen?
What, a play toward! I'll be an auditor;
An actor too perhaps, if I see cause.
QUINCE
Speak, Pyramus.—Thisby, stand forth.
PYRAMUS
'Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet,'
QUINCE
Odours, odours.
PYRAMUS
'—odours savours sweet:
So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear.—
But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,
And by and by I will to thee appear.'
[Exit.]
PUCK
A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here!
[Aside.—Exit.]
THISBE
Must I speak now?
QUINCE
Ay, marry, must you: for you must understand he goes
but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.
THISBE
'Most radiant Pyramus, most lily white of hue,
Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier,
Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew,
As true as truest horse, that would never tire,
I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb.'
QUINCE
Ninus' tomb, man: why, you must not speak that yet:
that you answer to Pyramus. You speak all your part at once,
cues, and all.—Pyramus enter: your cue is past; it is 'never
tire.'
[Re-enter PUCK, and BOTTOM with an ass's head.]
THISBE
O,'—As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire.'
PYRAMUS
'If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine:—'
QUINCE
O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted. Pray, masters!
fly, masters! Help!
[Exeunt Clowns.]
PUCK
I'll follow you; I'll lead you about a round,
Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier;
Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.
[Exit.]
BOTTOM
Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make
me afeard.
[Re-enter SNOUT.]
SNOUT
O Bottom, thou art changed! What do I see on thee?
BOTTOM
What do you see? you see an ass-head of your own, do you?
[Re-enter QUINCE.]
QUINCE
Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated.
[Exit.]
BOTTOM
I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to
fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this
place, do what they can: I will walk up and down here,
and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid.
[Sings.]
The ousel cock, so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
The wren with little quill.
TITANIA
[Waking.]
What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?
BOTTOM
[Sings.]
The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,
The plain-song cuckoo gray,
Whose note full many a man doth mark,
And dares not answer nay;—
for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird?
Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry 'cuckoo' never so?
TITANIA
I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again;
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note.
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;
And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me,
On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.
BOTTOM
Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for
that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little
company together now-a-days: the more the pity that some honest
neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon
occasion.
TITANIA
Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.
BOTTOM
Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out of
this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.
TITANIA
Out of this wood do not desire to go;
Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no.
I am a spirit of no common rate,—
The summer still doth tend upon my state;
And I do love thee: therefore, go with me,
I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee;
And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,
And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep:
And I will purge thy mortal grossness so
That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.—
Peasblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!
[Enter Four Fairies.]
FIRST FAIRY
Ready.
SECOND FAIRY
And I.
THIRD FAIRY
And I.
FOURTH FAIRY
Where shall we go?
TITANIA
Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;
Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;
Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,
With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries;
The honey bags steal from the humble-bees,
And, for night-tapers, crop their waxen thighs,
And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes,
To have my love to bed and to arise;
And pluck the wings from painted butterflies,
To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:
Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.
FIRST FAIRY
Hail, mortal!
SECOND FAIRY
Hail!
THIRD FAIRY
Hail!
FOURTH FAIRY
Hail!
BOTTOM
I cry your worships mercy, heartily.—I beseech your
worship's name.
COBWEB
Cobweb.
BOTTOM
I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I
cut my finger, I shall make bold with you.—Your name, honest
gentleman?
PEASBLOSSOM
Peasblossom.
BOTTOM
I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and
to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peasblossom, I
shall desire you of more acquaintance too.—Your name, I beseech
you, sir?
MUSTARDSEED
Mustardseed.
BOTTOM
Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well:
That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devoured many a
gentleman of your house: I promise you your kindred hath made my
eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good
Master Mustardseed.
TITANIA
Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower.
The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye;
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower;
Lamenting some enforcèd chastity.
Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently.
[Exeunt.]

[edit]
SCENE II. Another part of the wood.
[Enter OBERON.]
OBERON
I wonder if Titania be awak'd;
Then, what it was that next came in her eye,
Which she must dote on in extremity.
[Enter PUCK.]
Here comes my messenger.—How now, mad spirit?
What night-rule now about this haunted grove?
PUCK
My mistress with a monster is in love.
Near to her close and consecrated bower,
While she was in her dull and sleeping hour,
A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,
That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,
Were met together to rehearse a play
Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day.
The shallowest thickskin of that barren sort
Who Pyramus presented in their sport,
Forsook his scene and enter'd in a brake;
When I did him at this advantage take,
An ass's nowl I fixèd on his head;
Anon, his Thisbe must be answered,
And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy,
As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,
Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort,
Rising and cawing at the gun's report,
Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky,
So at his sight away his fellows fly:
And at our stamp here, o'er and o'er one falls;
He murder cries, and help from Athens calls.
Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears, thus strong,
Made senseless things begin to do them wrong;
For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch;
Some sleeves, some hats: from yielders all things catch.
I led them on in this distracted fear,
And left sweet Pyramus translated there:
When in that moment,—so it came to pass,—
Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass.
OBERON
This falls out better than I could devise.
But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes
With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?
PUCK
I took him sleeping,—that is finish'd too,—
And the Athenian woman by his side;
That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd.
[Enter DEMETRIUS and HERMIA.]
OBERON
Stand close; this is the same Athenian.
PUCK
This is the woman, but not this the man.
DEMETRIUS
O, why rebuke you him that loves you so?
Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
HERMIA
Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse;
For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.
If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,
Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,
And kill me too.
The sun was not so true unto the day
As he to me: would he have stol'n away
From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon
This whole earth may be bor'd; and that the moon
May through the centre creep and so displease
Her brother's noontide with the antipodes.
It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him;
So should a murderer look; so dead, so grim.
DEMETRIUS
So should the murder'd look; and so should I,
Pierc'd through the heart with your stern cruelty:
Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.
HERMIA
What's this to my Lysander? where is he?
Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?
DEMETRIUS
I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.
HERMIA
Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv'st me past the bounds
Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then?
Henceforth be never number'd among men!
Oh! once tell true; tell true, even for my sake;
Durst thou have look'd upon him, being awake,
And hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch!
Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?
An adder did it; for with doubler tongue
Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.
DEMETRIUS
You spend your passion on a mispris'd mood:
I am not guilty of Lysander's blood;
Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.
HERMIA
I pray thee, tell me, then, that he is well.
DEMETRIUS
An if I could, what should I get therefore?
HERMIA
A privilege never to see me more.—
And from thy hated presence part I so:
See me no more whether he be dead or no.
[Exit.]
DEMETRIUS
There is no following her in this fierce vein:
Here, therefore, for a while I will remain.
So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe;
Which now in some slight measure it will pay,
If for his tender here I make some stay.
[Lies down.]
OBERON
What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite,
And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight:
Of thy misprision must perforce ensue
Some true love turn'd, and not a false turn'd true.
PUCK
Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth,
A million fail, confounding oath on oath.
OBERON
About the wood go, swifter than the wind,
And Helena of Athens look thou find:
All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer,
With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.
By some illusion see thou bring her here;
I'll charm his eyes against she do appear.
PUCK
I go, I go; look how I go,—
Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.
[Exit.]
OBERON
Flower of this purple dye,
Hit with Cupid's archery,
Sink in apple of his eye!
When his love he doth espy,
Let her shine as gloriously
As the Venus of the sky.—
When thou wak'st, if she be by,
Beg of her for remedy.
[Re-enter PUCK.]
PUCK
Captain of our fairy band,
Helena is here at hand,
And the youth mistook by me
Pleading for a lover's fee;
Shall we their fond pageant see?
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
OBERON
Stand aside: the noise they make
Will cause Demetrius to awake.
PUCK
Then will two at once woo one,—
That must needs be sport alone;
And those things do best please me
That befall preposterously.
[Enter LYSANDER and HELENA.]
LYSANDER
Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?
Scorn and derision never come in tears.
Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,
In their nativity all truth appears.
How can these things in me seem scorn to you,
Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?
HELENA
You do advance your cunning more and more.
When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!
These vows are Hermia's: will you give her o'er?
Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:
Your vows to her and me, put in two scales,
Will even weigh; and both as light as tales.
LYSANDER
I had no judgment when to her I swore.
HELENA
Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er.
LYSANDER
Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.
DEMETRIUS
[Awaking.]
O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow,
Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
When thou hold'st up thy hand: O, let me kiss
This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!
HELENA
O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent
To set against me for your merriment.
If you were civil, and knew courtesy,
You would not do me thus much injury.
Can you not hate me, as I know you do,
But you must join in souls to mock me too?
If you were men, as men you are in show,
You would not use a gentle lady so;
To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,
When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.
You both are rivals, and love Hermia;
And now both rivals, to mock Helena:
A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,
To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes
With your derision! None of noble sort
Would so offend a virgin, and extort
A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport.
LYSANDER
You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so;
For you love Hermia: this you know I know:
And here, with all good will, with all my heart,
In Hermia's love I yield you up my part;
And yours of Helena to me bequeath,
Whom I do love and will do till my death.
HELENA
Never did mockers waste more idle breath.
DEMETRIUS
Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:
If e'er I lov'd her, all that love is gone.
My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd;
And now to Helen is it home return'd,
There to remain.
LYSANDER
Helen, it is not so.
DEMETRIUS
Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,
Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear.—
Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear.
[Enter HERMIA.]
HERMIA
Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,
The ear more quick of apprehension makes;
Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense,
It pays the hearing double recompense:—
Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;
Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound.
But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?
LYSANDER
Why should he stay whom love doth press to go?
HERMIA
What love could press Lysander from my side?
LYSANDER
Lysander's love, that would not let him bide,—
Fair Helena,—who more engilds the night
Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light.
Why seek'st thou me? could not this make thee know
The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so?
HERMIA
You speak not as you think; it cannot be.
HELENA
Lo, she is one of this confederacy!
Now I perceive they have conjoin'd all three
To fashion this false sport in spite of me.
Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!
Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd,
To bait me with this foul derision?
Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd,
The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us,—O, is all forgot?
All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our needles created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key;
As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted;
But yet a union in partition,
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem:
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart;
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.
And will you rent our ancient love asunder,
To join with men in scorning your poor friend?
It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly:
Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury.
HERMIA
I am amazed at your passionate words:
I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me.
HELENA
Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,
To follow me, and praise my eyes and face?
And made your other love, Demetrius,—
Who even but now did spurn me with his foot,—
To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare,
Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this
To her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander
Deny your love, so rich within his soul,
And tender me, forsooth, affection,
But by your setting on, by your consent?
What though I be not so in grace as you,
So hung upon with love, so fortunate;
But miserable most, to love unlov'd?
This you should pity rather than despise.
HERMIA
I understand not what you mean by this.
HELENA
Ay, do persever, counterfeit sad looks,
Make mows upon me when I turn my back;
Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up:
This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.
If you have any pity, grace, or manners,
You would not make me such an argument.
But fare ye well: 'tis partly my own fault;
Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy.
LYSANDER
Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse;
My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena!
HELENA
O excellent!
HERMIA
Sweet, do not scorn her so.
DEMETRIUS
If she cannot entreat, I can compel.
LYSANDER
Thou canst compel no more than she entreat;
Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers.—
Helen, I love thee; by my life I do;
I swear by that which I will lose for thee
To prove him false that says I love thee not.
DEMETRIUS
I say I love thee more than he can do.
LYSANDER
If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too.
DEMETRIUS
Quick, come,—
HERMIA
Lysander, whereto tends all this?
LYSANDER
Away, you Ethiope!
DEMETRIUS
No, no, sir:—he will
Seem to break loose; take on as you would follow:
But yet come not. You are a tame man; go!
LYSANDER
Hang off, thou cat, thou burr: vile thing, let loose,
Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent.
HERMIA
Why are you grown so rude? what change is this,
Sweet love?
LYSANDER
Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out!
Out, loathed medicine! hated potion, hence!
HERMIA
Do you not jest?
HELENA
Yes, sooth; and so do you.
LYSANDER
Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.
DEMETRIUS
I would I had your bond; for I perceive
A weak bond holds you; I'll not trust your word.
LYSANDER
What! should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?
Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so.
HERMIA
What! can you do me greater harm than hate?
Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love?
Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander?
I am as fair now as I was erewhile.
Since night you lov'd me; yet since night you left me:
Why then, you left me,—O, the gods forbid!—
In earnest, shall I say?
LYSANDER
Ay, by my life;
And never did desire to see thee more.
Therefore be out of hope, of question, doubt,
Be certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest
That I do hate thee and love Helena.
HERMIA
O me! you juggler! you cankerblossom!
You thief of love! What! have you come by night,
And stol'n my love's heart from him?
HELENA
Fine, i' faith!
Have you no modesty, no maiden shame,
No touch of bashfulness? What! will you tear
Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?
Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet, you!
HERMIA
Puppet! why so? Ay, that way goes the game.
Now I perceive that she hath made compare
Between our statures; she hath urg'd her height;
And with her personage, her tall personage,
Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him.—
And are you grown so high in his esteem
Because I am so dwarfish and so low?
How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak;
How low am I? I am not yet so low
But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.
HELENA
I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,
Let her not hurt me. I was never curst;
I have no gift at all in shrewishness;
I am a right maid for my cowardice;
Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think,
Because she is something lower than myself,
That I can match her.
HERMIA
Lower! hark, again.
HELENA
Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me.
I evermore did love you, Hermia;
Did ever keep your counsels; never wrong'd you;
Save that, in love unto Demetrius,
I told him of your stealth unto this wood:
He follow'd you; for love I follow'd him;
But he hath chid me hence, and threaten'd me
To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too:
And now, so you will let me quiet go,
To Athens will I bear my folly back,
And follow you no farther. Let me go:
You see how simple and how fond I am.
HERMIA
Why, get you gone: who is't that hinders you?
HELENA
A foolish heart that I leave here behind.
HERMIA
What! with Lysander?
HELENA
With Demetrius.
LYSANDER
Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena.
DEMETRIUS
No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part.
HELENA
O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd:
She was a vixen when she went to school;
And, though she be but little, she is fierce.
HERMIA
Little again! nothing but low and little!—
Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?
Let me come to her.
LYSANDER
Get you gone, you dwarf;
You minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass made;
You bead, you acorn.
DEMETRIUS
You are too officious
In her behalf that scorns your services.
Let her alone: speak not of Helena;
Take not her part; for if thou dost intend
Never so little show of love to her,
Thou shalt aby it.
LYSANDER
Now she holds me not;
Now follow, if thou dar'st, to try whose right,
Of thine or mine, is most in Helena.
DEMETRIUS
Follow! nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jole.
[Exeunt LYSANDER and DEMETRIUS.]
HERMIA
You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you:
Nay, go not back.
HELENA
I will not trust you, I;
Nor longer stay in your curst company.
Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray;
My legs are longer though, to run away.
[Exit.]
HERMIA
I am amaz'd, and know not what to say.
[Exit, pursuing HELENA.]
OBERON
This is thy negligence: still thou mistak'st,
Or else commit'st thy knaveries willfully.
PUCK
Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.
Did not you tell me I should know the man
By the Athenian garments he had on?
And so far blameless proves my enterprise
That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes:
And so far am I glad it so did sort,
As this their jangling I esteem a sport.
OBERON
Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight;
Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;
The starry welkin cover thou anon
With drooping fog, as black as Acheron,
And lead these testy rivals so astray
As one come not within another's way.
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong;
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius;
And from each other look thou lead them thus,
Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep
With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep:
Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye;
Whose liquor hath this virtuous property,
To take from thence all error with his might
And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.
When they next wake, all this derision
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision;
And back to Athens shall the lovers wend
With league whose date till death shall never end.
Whiles I in this affair do thee employ,
I'll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy;
And then I will her charmed eye release
From monster's view, and all things shall be peace.
PUCK
My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,
For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast;
And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger,
At whose approach ghosts, wandering here and there,
Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,
That in cross-ways and floods have burial,
Already to their wormy beds are gone;
For fear lest day should look their shames upon
They wilfully exile themselves from light,
And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night.
OBERON
But we are spirits of another sort:
I with the morning's love have oft made sport;
And, like a forester, the groves may tread
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,
Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt-green streams.
But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:
We may effect this business yet ere day.
[Exit OBERON.]
PUCK
Up and down, up and down;
I will lead them up and down:
I am fear'd in field and town.
Goblin, lead them up and down.
Here comes one.
[Enter LYSANDER.]
LYSANDER
Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.
PUCK
Here, villain; drawn and ready. Where art thou?
LYSANDER
I will be with thee straight.
PUCK
Follow me, then,
To plainer ground.
[Exit LYSANDER as following the voice.]
[Enter DEMETRIUS.]
DEMETRIUS
Lysander! speak again.
Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?
Speak. In some bush? where dost thou hide thy head?
PUCK
Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars,
Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars,
And wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou child;
I'll whip thee with a rod: he is defiled
That draws a sword on thee.
DEMETRIUS
Yea, art thou there?
PUCK
Follow my voice; we'll try no manhood here.
[Exeunt.]
[Re-enter LYSANDER.]
LYSANDER
He goes before me, and still dares me on;
When I come where he calls, then he is gone.
The villain is much lighter heeled than I:
I follow'd fast, but faster he did fly;
That fallen am I in dark uneven way,
And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day!
[Lies down.]
For if but once thou show me thy grey light,
I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite.
[Sleeps.]
[Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS.]
PUCK
Ho, ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com'st thou not?
DEMETRIUS
Abide me, if thou dar'st; for well I wot
Thou runn'st before me, shifting every place;
And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face.
Where art thou?
PUCK
Come hither; I am here.
DEMETRIUS
Nay, then, thou mock'st me.
Thou shalt buy this dear,
If ever I thy face by daylight see:
Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me
To measure out my length on this cold bed.—
By day's approach look to be visited.
[Lies down and sleeps.]
[Enter HELENA.]
HELENA
O weary night, O long and tedious night,
Abate thy hours! Shine comforts from the east,
That I may back to Athens by daylight,
From these that my poor company detest:—
And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye,
Steal me awhile from mine own company.
[Sleeps.]
PUCK
Yet but three? Come one more;
Two of both kinds makes up four.
Here she comes, curst and sad:—
Cupid is a knavish lad,
Thus to make poor females mad.
[Enter HERMIA.]
HERMIA
Never so weary, never so in woe,
Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers;
I can no further crawl, no further go;
My legs can keep no pace with my desires.
Here will I rest me till the break of day.
Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!
[Lies down.]
PUCK
On the ground
Sleep sound:
I'll apply
To your eye,
Gentle lover, remedy.
[Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER'S eye.]
When thou wak'st,
Thou tak'st
True delight
In the sight
Of thy former lady's eye:
And the country proverb known,
That every man should take his own,
In your waking shall be shown:
Jack shall have Jill;
Nought shall go ill;
The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.
[Exit PUCK.—DEMETRIUS, HELENA &c, sleep.]
[edit]
ACT IV

[edit]
SCENE I. The Wood.
[Enter TITANIA and BOTTOM; PEASBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH,
MUSTARDSEED, and other FAIRIES attending; OBERON behind, unseen.]
TITANIA
Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,
And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.
BOTTOM
Where's Peasblossom?
PEASBLOSSOM
Ready.
BOTTOM
Scratch my head, Peasblossom.—
Where's Monsieur Cobweb?
COBWEB
Ready.
BOTTOM
Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get you your weapons in
your hand and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a
thistle; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not
fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur; and, good
monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be
loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior.—
Where's Monsieur Mustardseed?
MUSTARDSEED
Ready.
BOTTOM
Give me your neif, Monsieur Mustardseed.
Pray you, leave your curtsy, good monsieur.
MUSTARDSEED
What's your will?
BOTTOM
Nothing, good monsieur, but to help Cavalero Cobweb to
scratch. I must to the barber's, monsieur; for methinks I am
marvellous hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass,
if my hair do but tickle me I must scratch.
TITANIA
What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love?
BOTTOM
I have a reasonable good ear in music; let us have the
tongs and the bones.
TITANIA
Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat.
BOTTOM
Truly, a peck of provender; I could munch your good dry
oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good
hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.
TITANIA
I have a venturous fairy that shall seek
The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.
BOTTOM
I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But,
I pray you, let none of your people stir me; I have an
exposition of sleep come upon me.
TITANIA
Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.
Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away.
So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle
Gently entwist,—the female ivy so
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.
O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee!
[They sleep.]
[OBERON advances. Enter PUCK.]
OBERON
Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight?
Her dotage now I do begin to pity.
For, meeting her of late behind the wood,
Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool,
I did upbraid her and fall out with her:
For she his hairy temples then had rounded
With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers;
And that same dew, which sometime on the buds
Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls,
Stood now within the pretty flow'rets' eyes,
Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.
When I had, at my pleasure, taunted her,
And she, in mild terms, begg'd my patience,
I then did ask of her her changeling child;
Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent
To bear him to my bower in fairy-land.
And now I have the boy, I will undo
This hateful imperfection of her eyes.
And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp
From off the head of this Athenian swain,
That he awaking when the other do,
May all to Athens back again repair,
And think no more of this night's accidents
But as the fierce vexation of a dream.
But first I will release the fairy queen.
Be as thou wast wont to be;
[Touching her eyes with an herb.]
See as thou was wont to see.
Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower
Hath such force and blessed power.
Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.
TITANIA
My Oberon! what visions have I seen!
Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.
OBERON
There lies your love.
TITANIA
How came these things to pass?
O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now!
OBERON
Silence awhile.—Robin, take off this head.
Titania, music call; and strike more dead
Than common sleep, of all these five, the sense.
TITANIA
Music, ho! music; such as charmeth sleep.
PUCK
Now when thou wak'st, with thine own fool's eyes peep.
OBERON
Sound, music. [Still music.] Come, my queen, take hands with me,
And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.
Now thou and I are new in amity,
And will to-morrow midnight solemnly
Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly,
And bless it to all fair prosperity:
There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be
Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.
PUCK
Fairy king, attend and mark;
I do hear the morning lark.
OBERON
Then, my queen, in silence sad,
Trip we after night's shade.
We the globe can compass soon,
Swifter than the wand'ring moon.
TITANIA
Come, my lord; and in our flight,
Tell me how it came this night
That I sleeping here was found
With these mortals on the ground.
[Exeunt. Horns sound within.]
[Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and Train.]
THESEUS
Go, one of you, find out the forester;—
For now our observation is perform'd;
And since we have the vaward of the day,
My love shall hear the music of my hounds,—
Uncouple in the western valley; go:—
Despatch, I say, and find the forester.—
[Exit an ATTENDANT.]
We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top,
And mark the musical confusion
Of hounds and echo in conjunction.
HIPPOLYTA
I was with Hercules and Cadmus once
When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear
With hounds of Sparta: never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
THESEUS
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly.
Judge when you hear.—But, soft, what nymphs are these?
EGEUS
My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;
And this Lysander; this Demetrius is;
This Helena, old Nedar's Helena:
I wonder of their being here together.
THESEUS
No doubt they rose up early to observe
The rite of May; and, hearing our intent,
Came here in grace of our solemnity.—
But speak, Egeus; is not this the day
That Hermia should give answer of her choice?
EGEUS
It is, my lord.
THESEUS
Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.
[Horns, and shout within. DEMETRIUS, LYSANDER,HERMIA, and HELENA awake and start up.]
Good-morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past;
Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?
LYSANDER
Pardon, my lord.
[He and the rest kneel to THESEUS.]
THESEUS
I pray you all, stand up.
I know you two are rival enemies;
How comes this gentle concord in the world,
That hatred is so far from jealousy
To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?
LYSANDER
My lord, I shall reply amazedly,
Half 'sleep, half waking; but as yet, I swear,
I cannot truly say how I came here:
But, as I think,—for truly would I speak—
And now I do bethink me, so it is,—
I came with Hermia hither: our intent
Was to be gone from Athens, where we might be,
Without the peril of the Athenian law.
EGEUS
Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough;
I beg the law, the law upon his head.—
They would have stol'n away, they would, Demetrius,
Thereby to have defeated you and me:
You of your wife, and me of my consent,—
Of my consent that she should be your wife.
DEMETRIUS
My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth,
Of this their purpose hither to this wood;
And I in fury hither follow'd them,
Fair Helena in fancy following me.
But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,—
But by some power it is,—my love to Hermia,
Melted as the snow—seems to me now
As the remembrance of an idle gawd
Which in my childhood I did dote upon:
And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,
The object and the pleasure of mine eye,
Is only Helena. To her, my lord,
Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia:
But, like a sickness, did I loathe this food;
But, as in health, come to my natural taste,
Now I do wish it, love it, long for it,
And will for evermore be true to it.
THESEUS
Fair lovers, you are fortunately met:
Of this discourse we more will hear anon.—
Egeus, I will overbear your will;
For in the temple, by and by with us,
These couples shall eternally be knit.
And, for the morning now is something worn,
Our purpos'd hunting shall be set aside.—
Away with us to Athens, three and three,
We'll hold a feast in great solemnity.—
Come, Hippolyta.
[Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and Train.]
DEMETRIUS
These things seem small and undistinguishable,
Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.
HERMIA
Methinks I see these things with parted eye,
When every thing seems double.
HELENA
So methinks:
And I have found Demetrius like a jewel.
Mine own, and not mine own.
DEMETRIUS
It seems to me
That yet we sleep, we dream.—Do not you think
The duke was here, and bid us follow him?
HERMIA
Yea, and my father.
HELENA
And Hippolyta.
LYSANDER
And he did bid us follow to the temple.
DEMETRIUS
Why, then, we are awake: let's follow him;
And by the way let us recount our dreams.
[Exeunt.]
[As they go out, BOTTOM awakes.]
BOTTOM
When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is 'Most
fair Pyramus.'—Heigh-ho!—Peter Quince! Flute, the
bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God's my life,
stol'n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare
vision. I have had a dream—past the wit of man to say
what dream it was.—Man is but an ass if he go about
to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell
what. Methought I was, and methought I had,—but man is but a
patched fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The
eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen; man's
hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart
to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a
ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream, because
it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a
play, before the duke: peradventure, to make it the more
gracious, I shall sing it at her death.
[Exit.]

[edit]
SCENE II. Athens. A Room in QUINCE'S House.
[Enter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING.]
QUINCE
Have you sent to Bottom's house? is he come home yet?
STARVELING
He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt, he is transported.
FLUTE
If he come not, then the play is marred; it goes not
forward, doth it?
QUINCE
It is not possible: you have not a man in all Athens
able to discharge Pyramus but he.
FLUTE
No; he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in
Athens.
QUINCE
Yea, and the best person too: and he is a very paramour
for a sweet voice.
FLUTE
You must say paragon: a paramour is, God bless us, a thing of
naught.
[Enter SNUG.]
SNUG
Masters, the duke is coming from the temple; and there is
two or three lords and ladies more married: if our sport had gone
forward, we had all been made men.
FLUTE
O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day
during his life; he could not have 'scaped sixpence a-day; an
the duke had not given him sixpence a-day for playing Pyramus,
I'll be hanged; he would have deserved it: sixpence a-day in
Pyramus, or nothing.
[Enter BOTTOM.]
BOTTOM
Where are these lads? where are these hearts?
QUINCE
Bottom!—O most courageous day! O most happy hour!
BOTTOM
Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not
what; for if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you
everything, right as it fell out.
QUINCE
Let us hear, sweet Bottom.
BOTTOM
Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the
duke hath dined. Get your apparel together; good strings to
your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the
palace; every man look over his part; for the short and the long
is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have clean
linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for
they shall hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear actors,
eat no onions nor garlick, for we are to utter sweet breath; and
I do not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more
words: away! go; away!
[Exeunt.]

[edit]
ACT V

[edit]
SCENE I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of THESEUS.
[Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, Lords, and Attendants.]
HIPPOLYTA
'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.
THESEUS
More strange than true. I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear?
HIPPOLYTA
But all the story of the night told over,
And all their minds transfigur'd so together,
More witnesseth than fancy's images,
And grows to something of great constancy;
But, howsoever, strange and admirable.
[Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA.]
THESEUS
Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.—
Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love
Accompany your hearts!
LYSANDER
More than to us
Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!
THESEUS
Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,
To wear away this long age of three hours
Between our after-supper and bed-time?
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
What revels are in hand? Is there no play
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
Call Philostrate.
PHILOSTRATE
Here, mighty Theseus.
THESEUS
Say, what abridgment have you for this evening?
What masque? what music? How shall we beguile
The lazy time, if not with some delight?
PHILOSTRATE
There is a brief how many sports are ripe;
Make choice of which your highness will see first.
[Giving a paper.]
THESEUS
[Reads.]
'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung
By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.'
We'll none of that: that have I told my love,
In glory of my kinsman Hercules.
'The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.'
That is an old device, and it was play'd
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
'The thrice three Muses mourning for the death
Of learning, late deceas'd in beggary.'
That is some satire, keen and critical,
Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.
'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.'
Merry and tragical! tedious and brief!
That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow.
How shall we find the concord of this discord?
PHILOSTRATE
A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,
Which is as brief as I have known a play;
But by ten words, my lord, it is too long,
Which makes it tedious: for in all the play
There is not one word apt, one player fitted:
And tragical, my noble lord, it is;
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself:
Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confess,
Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears
The passion of loud laughter never shed.
THESEUS
What are they that do play it?
PHILOSTRATE
Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,
Which never labour'd in their minds till now;
And now have toil'd their unbreath'd memories
With this same play against your nuptial.
THESEUS
And we will hear it.
PHILOSTRATE
No, my noble lord,
It is not for you: I have heard it over,
And it is nothing, nothing in the world;
Unless you can find sport in their intents,
Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain,
To do you service.
THESEUS
I will hear that play;
For never anything can be amiss
When simpleness and duty tender it.
Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.
[Exit PHILOSTRATE.]
HIPPOLYTA
I love not to see wretchedness o'er-charged,
And duty in his service perishing.
THESEUS
Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.
HIPPOLYTA
He says they can do nothing in this kind.
THESEUS
The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.
Our sport shall be to take what they mistake:
And what poor duty cannot do,
Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed
To greet me with premeditated welcomes;
Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,
Make periods in the midst of sentences,
Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears,
And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off,
Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,
Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome;
And in the modesty of fearful duty
I read as much as from the rattling tongue
Of saucy and audacious eloquence.
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity
In least speak most to my capacity.
[Enter PHILOSTRATE.]
PHILOSTRATE
So please your grace, the prologue is address'd.
THESEUS
Let him approach.
[Flourish of trumpets. Enter PROLOGUE.]
PROLOGUE
'If we offend, it is with our good will.
That you should think, we come not to offend,
But with good will. To show our simple skill,
That is the true beginning of our end.
Consider then, we come but in despite.
We do not come, as minding to content you,
Our true intent is. All for your delight
We are not here. That you should here repent you,
The actors are at hand: and, by their show,
You shall know all that you are like to know,'
THESEUS
This fellow doth not stand upon points.
LYSANDER
He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows
not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak,
but to speak true.
HIPPOLYTA
Indeed he hath played on this prologue like a child
on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.
THESEUS
His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all
disordered. Who is next?
[Enter PYRAMUS and THISBE, WALL, MOONSHINE, and LION, as in dumb
show.]
PROLOGUE
Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;
But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.
This man is Pyramus, if you would know;
This beauteous lady Thisby is certain.
This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present
Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder;
And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content
To whisper, at the which let no man wonder.
This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,
Presenteth Moonshine: for, if you will know,
By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn
To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo.
This grisly beast, which by name Lion hight,
The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,
Did scare away, or rather did affright;
And as she fled, her mantle she did fall;
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain:
Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth, and tall,
And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain;
Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade,
He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast;
And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,
His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,
Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain,
At large discourse while here they do remain.
[Exeunt PROLOGUE, THISBE, LION, and MOONSHINE.]
THESEUS
I wonder if the lion be to speak.
DEMETRIUS
No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.
WALL
In this same interlude it doth befall
That I, one Snout by name, present a wall:
And such a wall as I would have you think
That had in it a crannied hole or chink,
Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,
Did whisper often very secretly.
This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show
That I am that same wall; the truth is so:
And this the cranny is, right and sinister,
Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.
THESEUS
Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?
DEMETRIUS
It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard
discourse, my lord.
THESEUS
Pyramus draws near the wall; silence.
[Enter PYRAMUS.]
PYRAMUS
O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so black!
O night, which ever art when day is not!
O night, O night, alack, alack, alack,
I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot!—
And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall,
That stand'st between her father's ground and mine;
Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,
Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne.
[WALL holds up his fingers.]
Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this!
But what see what see I? No Thisby do I see.
O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss,
Curs'd be thy stones for thus deceiving me!
THESEUS
The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.
PYRAMUS
No, in truth, sir, he should not. 'Deceiving me' is
Thisby's cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through
the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told you.—Yonder
she comes.
[Enter THISBE.]
THISBE
O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,
For parting my fair Pyramus and me:
My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones:
Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.
PYRAMUS
I see a voice; now will I to the chink,
To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face.
Thisby!
THISBE
My love! thou art my love, I think.
PYRAMUS
Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace;
And like Limander am I trusty still.
THISBE
And I like Helen, till the fates me kill.
PYRAMUS
Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.
THISBE
As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.
PYRAMUS
O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall.
THISBE
I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.
PYRAMUS
Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway?
THISBE
'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay.
WALL
Thus have I, wall, my part discharged so;
And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.
[Exeunt WALL, PYRAMUS and THISBE.]
THESEUS
Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.
DEMETRIUS
No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear
without warning.
HIPPOLYTA
This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.
THESEUS
The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst
are no worse, if imagination amend them.
HIPPOLYTA
It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.
THESEUS
If we imagine no worse of them than they of
themselves, they may pass for excellent men.
Here come two noble beasts in, a moon and a lion.
[Enter LION and MOONSHINE.]
LION
You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear
The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,
May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here,
When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.
Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am
A lion fell, nor else no lion's dam:
For, if I should as lion come in strife
Into this place, 'twere pity on my life.
THESEUS
A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.
DEMETRIUS
The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw.
LYSANDER
This lion is a very fox for his valour.
THESEUS
True; and a goose for his discretion.
DEMETRIUS
Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his
discretion, and the fox carries the goose.
THESEUS
His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour;
for the goose carries not the fox. It is well; leave it to his
discretion, and let us listen to the moon.
MOONSHINE
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present:
DEMETRIUS
He should have worn the horns on his head.
THESEUS
He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within
the circumference.
MOONSHINE
This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;
Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be.
THESEUS
This is the greatest error of all the rest: the man should be
put into the lantern. How is it else the man i' the moon?
DEMETRIUS
He dares not come there for the candle: for, you
see, it is already in snuff.
HIPPOLYTA
I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!
THESEUS
It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he
is in the wane: but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must
stay the time.
LYSANDER
Proceed, moon.
MOON
All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern
is the moon; I, the man i' the moon; this thorn-bush, my
thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.
DEMETRIUS
Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all
these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisbe.
[Enter THISBE.]
THISBE
This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love?
LION
Oh!
[The LION roars.—THISBE runs off.]
DEMETRIUS
Well roared, lion.
THESEUS
Well run, Thisbe.
HIPPOLYTA
Well shone, moon.—Truly, the moon shines with a good grace.
[The LION tears THISBE'S Mantle, and exit.]
THESEUS
Well moused, lion.
DEMETRIUS
And so comes Pyramus.
LYSANDER
And then the lion vanishes.
[Enter PYRAMUS.]
PYRAMUS
Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;
I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright:
For, by thy gracious golden, glittering streams,
I trust to take of truest Thisby's sight.
But stay;—O spite!
But mark,—poor knight,
What dreadful dole is here!
Eyes, do you see?
How can it be?
O dainty duck! O dear!
Thy mantle good,
What! stained with blood?
Approach, ye furies fell!
O fates! come, come;
Cut thread and thrum;
Quail, rush, conclude, and quell!
THESEUS
This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go
near to make a man look sad.
HIPPOLYTA
Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
PYRAMUS
O wherefore, nature, didst thou lions frame?
Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear;
Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame
That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, that look'd with cheer.
Come, tears, confound;
Out, sword, and wound
The pap of Pyramus:
Ay, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop:—
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.
Now am I dead,
Now am I fled;
My soul is in the sky:
Tongue, lose thy light!
Moon, take thy flight!
Now die, die, die, die, die.
[Dies. Exit MOONSHINE.]
DEMETRIUS
No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.
LYSANDER
Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing.
THESEUS
With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass.
HIPPOLYTA
How chance moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes
back and finds her lover?
THESEUS
She will find him by starlight.—Here she comes; and
her passion ends the play.
[Enter THISBE.]
HIPPOLYTA
Methinks she should not use a long one for such a
Pyramus: I hope she will be brief.
DEMETRIUS
A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which
Thisbe, is the better.
LYSANDER
She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
DEMETRIUS
And thus she moans, videlicet.—
THISBE
Asleep, my love?
What, dead, my dove?
O Pyramus, arise,
Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
Dead, dead? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
These lily lips,
This cherry nose,
These yellow cowslip cheeks,
Are gone, are gone:
Lovers, make moan!
His eyes were green as leeks.
O Sisters Three,
Come, come to me,
With hands as pale as milk;
Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore
With shears his thread of silk.
Tongue, not a word:—
Come, trusty sword;
Come, blade, my breast imbrue;
And farewell, friends:—
Thus Thisbe ends;
Adieu, adieu, adieu.
[Dies.]
THESEUS
Moonshine and lion are left to bury the dead.
DEMETRIUS
Ay, and wall too.
BOTTOM
No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers.
Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask
dance between two of our company?
THESEUS
No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no
excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there
need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played
Pyramus, and hang'd himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have
been a fine tragedy: and so it is, truly; and very notably
discharged. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone.
[Here a dance of Clowns.]
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve:—
Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn,
As much as we this night have overwatch'd.
This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd
The heavy gait of night.—Sweet friends, to bed.—
A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
In nightly revels and new jollity.
[Exeunt.]

[edit]
SCENE II
[Enter PUCK.]
PUCK
Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch-owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth its sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide:
And we fairies, that do run
By the triple Hecate's team
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house:
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.
[Enter OBERON and TITANIA, with their Train.]
OBERON
Through the house give glimmering light,
By the dead and drowsy fire:
Every elf and fairy sprite
Hop as light as bird from brier:
And this ditty, after me,
Sing and dance it trippingly.
TITANIA
First, rehearse your song by rote,
To each word a warbling note;
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
Will we sing, and bless this place.
[Song and Dance.]
OBERON
Now, until the break of day,
Through this house each fairy stray,
To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be;
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate.
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be;
And the blots of Nature's hand
Shall not in their issue stand:
Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,
Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity,
Shall upon their children be.—
With this field-dew consecrate,
Every fairy take his gate;
And each several chamber bless,
Through this palace, with sweet peace;
E'er shall it in safety rest,
And the owner of it blest.
Trip away:
Make no stay:
Meet me all by break of day.
[Exeunt OBERON, TITANIA, and Train.]
PUCK
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this,—and all is mended,—
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend;
If you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call:
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.
[Exit.]

2005-11-26T12:26:00.000-05:00

from wikisource.org
The Odyssey
Book I
Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, O daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.
So now all who escaped death in battle or by shipwreck had got safely home except Ulysses, and he, though he was longing to return to his wife and country, was detained by the goddess Calypso, who had got him into a large cave and wanted to marry him. But as years went by, there came a time when the gods settled that he should go back to Ithaca; even then, however, when he was among his own people, his troubles were not yet over; nevertheless all the gods had now begun to pity him except Neptune, who still persecuted him without ceasing and would not let him get home.
Now Neptune had gone off to the Ethiopians, who are at the world's end, and lie in two halves, the one looking West and the other East. He had gone there to accept a hecatomb of sheep and oxen, and was enjoying himself at his festival; but the other gods met in the house of Olympian Jove, and the sire of gods and men spoke first. At that moment he was thinking of Aegisthus, who had been killed by Agamemnon's son Orestes; so he said to the other gods:
"See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly. Look at Aegisthus; he must needs make love to Agamemnon's wife unrighteously and then kill Agamemnon, though he knew it would be the death of him; for I sent Mercury to warn him not to do either of these things, inasmuch as Orestes would be sure to take his revenge when he grew up and wanted to return home. Mercury told him this in all good will but he would not listen, and now he has paid for everything in full."
Then Minerva said, "Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, it served Aegisthus right, and so it would any one else who does as he did; but Aegisthus is neither here nor there; it is for Ulysses that my heart bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely sea-girt island, far away, poor man, from all his friends. It is an island covered with forest, in the very middle of the sea, and a goddess lives there, daughter of the magician Atlas, who looks after the bottom of the ocean, and carries the great columns that keep heaven and earth asunder. This daughter of Atlas has got hold of poor unhappy Ulysses, and keeps trying by every kind of blandishment to make him forget his home, so that he is tired of life, and thinks of nothing but how he may once more see the smoke of his own chimneys. You, sir, take no heed of this, and yet when Ulysses was before Troy did he not propitiate you with many a burnt sacrifice? Why then should you keep on being so angry with him?"
And Jove said, "My child, what are you talking about? How can I forget Ulysses than whom there is no more capable man on earth, nor more liberal in his offerings to the immortal gods that live in heaven? Bear in mind, however, that Neptune is still furious with Ulysses for having blinded an eye of Polyphemus king of the Cyclopes. Polyphemus is son to Neptune by the nymph Thoosa, daughter to the sea-king Phorcys; therefore though he will not kill Ulysses outright, he torments him by preventing him from getting home. Still, let us lay our heads together and see how we can help him to return; Neptune will then be pacified, for if we are all of a mind he can hardly stand out against us."
And Minerva said, "Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, if, then, the gods now mean that Ulysses should get home, we should first send Mercury to the Ogygian island to tell Calypso that we have made up our minds and that he is to return. In the meantime I will go to Ithaca, to put heart into Ulysses' son Telemachus; I will embolden him to call the Achaeans in assembly, and speak out to the suitors of his mother Penelope, who persist in eating up any number of his sheep and oxen; I will also conduct him to Sparta and to Pylos, to see if he can hear anything about the return of his dear father- for this will make people speak well of him."
So saying she bound on her glittering golden sandals, imperishable, with which she can fly like the wind over land or sea; she grasped the redoubtable bronze-shod spear, so stout and sturdy and strong, wherewith she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased her, and down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus, whereon forthwith she was in Ithaca, at the gateway of Ulysses' house, disguised as a visitor, Mentes, chief of the Taphians, and she held a bronze spear in her hand. There she found the lordly suitors seated on hides of the oxen which they had killed and eaten, and playing draughts in front of the house. Men-servants and pages were bustling about to wait upon them, some mixing wine with water in the mixing-bowls, some cleaning down the tables with wet sponges and laying them out again, and some cutting up great quantities of meat.
Telemachus saw her long before any one else did. He was sitting moodily among the suitors thinking about his brave father, and how he would send them flying out of the house, if he were to come to his own again and be honoured as in days gone by. Thus brooding as he sat among them, he caught sight of Minerva and went straight to the gate, for he was vexed that a stranger should be kept waiting for admittance. He took her right hand in his own, and bade her give him her spear. "Welcome," said he, "to our house, and when you have partaken of food you shall tell us what you have come for."
He led the way as he spoke, and Minerva followed him. When they were within he took her spear and set it in the spear- stand against a strong bearing-post along with the many other spears of his unhappy father, and he conducted her to a richly decorated seat under which he threw a cloth of damask. There was a footstool also for her feet, and he set another seat near her for himself, away from the suitors, that she might not be annoyed while eating by their noise and insolence, and that he might ask her more freely about his father.
A maid servant then brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands, and she drew a clean table beside them. An upper servant brought them bread, and offered them many good things of what there was in the house, the carver fetched them plates of all manner of meats and set cups of gold by their side, and a man-servant brought them wine and poured it out for them.
Then the suitors came in and took their places on the benches and seats. Forthwith men servants poured water over their hands, maids went round with the bread-baskets, pages filled the mixing-bowls with wine and water, and they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink they wanted music and dancing, which are the crowning embellishments of a banquet, so a servant brought a lyre to Phemius, whom they compelled perforce to sing to them. As soon as he touched his lyre and began to sing Telemachus spoke low to Minerva, with his head close to hers that no man might hear.
"I hope, sir," said he, "that you will not be offended with what I am going to say. Singing comes cheap to those who do not pay for it, and all this is done at the cost of one whose bones lie rotting in some wilderness or grinding to powder in the surf. If these men were to see my father come back to Ithaca they would pray for longer legs rather than a longer purse, for money would not serve them; but he, alas, has fallen on an ill fate, and even when people do sometimes say that he is coming, we no longer heed them; we shall never see him again. And now, sir, tell me and tell me true, who you are and where you come from. Tell me of your town and parents, what manner of ship you came in, how your crew brought you to Ithaca, and of what nation they declared themselves to be- for you cannot have come by land. Tell me also truly, for I want to know, are you a stranger to this house, or have you been here in my father's time? In the old days we had many visitors for my father went about much himself."
And Minerva answered, "I will tell you truly and particularly all about it. I am Mentes, son of Anchialus, and I am King of the Taphians. I have come here with my ship and crew, on a voyage to men of a foreign tongue being bound for Temesa with a cargo of iron, and I shall bring back copper. As for my ship, it lies over yonder off the open country away from the town, in the harbour Rheithron under the wooded mountain Neritum. Our fathers were friends before us, as old Laertes will tell you, if you will go and ask him. They say, however, that he never comes to town now, and lives by himself in the country, faring hardly, with an old woman to look after him and get his dinner for him, when he comes in tired from pottering about his vineyard. They told me your father was at home again, and that was why I came, but it seems the gods are still keeping him back, for he is not dead yet not on the mainland. It is more likely he is on some sea-girt island in mid ocean, or a prisoner among savages who are detaining him against his will I am no prophet, and know very little about omens, but I speak as it is borne in upon me from heaven, and assure you that he will not be away much longer; for he is a man of such resource that even though he were in chains of iron he would find some means of getting home again. But tell me, and tell me true, can Ulysses really have such a fine looking fellow for a son? You are indeed wonderfully like him about the head and eyes, for we were close friends before he set sail for Troy where the flower of all the Argives went also. Since that time we have never either of us seen the other."
"My mother," answered Telemachus, tells me I am son to Ulysses, but it is a wise child that knows his own father. Would that I were son to one who had grown old upon his own estates, for, since you ask me, there is no more ill-starred man under heaven than he who they tell me is my father."
And Minerva said, "There is no fear of your race dying out yet, while Penelope has such a fine son as you are. But tell me, and tell me true, what is the meaning of all this feasting, and who are these people? What is it all about? Have you some banquet, or is there a wedding in the family- for no one seems to be bringing any provisions of his own? And the guests- how atrociously they are behaving; what riot they make over the whole house; it is enough to disgust any respectable person who comes near them."
"Sir," said Telemachus, "as regards your question, so long as my father was here it was well with us and with the house, but the gods in their displeasure have willed it otherwise, and have hidden him away more closely than mortal man was ever yet hidden. I could have borne it better even though he were dead, if he had fallen with his men before Troy, or had died with friends around him when the days of his fighting were done; for then the Achaeans would have built a mound over his ashes, and I should myself have been heir to his renown; but now the storm-winds have spirited him away we know not wither; he is gone without leaving so much as a trace behind him, and I inherit nothing but dismay. Nor does the matter end simply with grief for the loss of my father; heaven has laid sorrows upon me of yet another kind; for the chiefs from all our islands, Dulichium, Same, and the woodland island of Zacynthus, as also all the principal men of Ithaca itself, are eating up my house under the pretext of paying their court to my mother, who will neither point blank say that she will not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end; so they are making havoc of my estate, and before long will do so also with myself."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Minerva, "then you do indeed want Ulysses home again. Give him his helmet, shield, and a couple lances, and if he is the man he was when I first knew him in our house, drinking and making merry, he would soon lay his hands about these rascally suitors, were he to stand once more upon his own threshold. He was then coming from Ephyra, where he had been to beg poison for his arrows from Ilus, son of Mermerus. Ilus feared the ever-living gods and would not give him any, but my father let him have some, for he was very fond of him. If Ulysses is the man he then was these suitors will have a short shrift and a sorry wedding.
"But there! It rests with heaven to determine whether he is to return, and take his revenge in his own house or no; I would, however, urge you to set about trying to get rid of these suitors at once. Take my advice, call the Achaean heroes in assembly to-morrow -lay your case before them, and call heaven to bear you witness. Bid the suitors take themselves off, each to his own place, and if your mother's mind is set on marrying again, let her go back to her father, who will find her a husband and provide her with all the marriage gifts that so dear a daughter may expect. As for yourself, let me prevail upon you to take the best ship you can get, with a crew of twenty men, and go in quest of your father who has so long been missing. Some one may tell you something, or (and people often hear things in this way) some heaven-sent message may direct you. First go to Pylos and ask Nestor; thence go on to Sparta and visit Menelaus, for he got home last of all the Achaeans; if you hear that your father is alive and on his way home, you can put up with the waste these suitors will make for yet another twelve months. If on the other hand you hear of his death, come home at once, celebrate his funeral rites with all due pomp, build a barrow to his memory, and make your mother marry again. Then, having done all this, think it well over in your mind how, by fair means or foul, you may kill these suitors in your own house. You are too old to plead infancy any longer; have you not heard how people are singing Orestes' praises for having killed his father's murderer Aegisthus? You are a fine, smart looking fellow; show your mettle, then, and make yourself a name in story. Now, however, I must go back to my ship and to my crew, who will be impatient if I keep them waiting longer; think the matter over for yourself, and remember what I have said to you."
"Sir," answered Telemachus, "it has been very kind of you to talk to me in this way, as though I were your own son, and I will do all you tell me; I know you want to be getting on with your voyage, but stay a little longer till you have taken a bath and refreshed yourself. I will then give you a present, and you shall go on your way rejoicing; I will give you one of great beauty and value- a keepsake such as only dear friends give to one another."
Minerva answered, "Do not try to keep me, for I would be on my way at once. As for any present you may be disposed to make me, keep it till I come again, and I will take it home with me. You shall give me a very good one, and I will give you one of no less value in return."
With these words she flew away like a bird into the air, but she had given Telemachus courage, and had made him think more than ever about his father. He felt the change, wondered at it, and knew that the stranger had been a god, so he went straight to where the suitors were sitting.
Phemius was still singing, and his hearers sat rapt in silence as he told the sad tale of the return from Troy, and the ills Minerva had laid upon the Achaeans. Penelope, daughter of Icarius, heard his song from her room upstairs, and came down by the great staircase, not alone, but attended by two of her handmaids. When she reached the suitors she stood by one of the bearing posts that supported the roof of the cloisters with a staid maiden on either side of her. She held a veil, moreover, before her face, and was weeping bitterly.
"Phemius," she cried, "you know many another feat of gods and heroes, such as poets love to celebrate. Sing the suitors some one of these, and let them drink their wine in silence, but cease this sad tale, for it breaks my sorrowful heart, and reminds me of my lost husband whom I mourn ever without ceasing, and whose name was great over all Hellas and middle Argos."
"Mother," answered Telemachus, "let the bard sing what he has a mind to; bards do not make the ills they sing of; it is Jove, not they, who makes them, and who sends weal or woe upon mankind according to his own good pleasure. This fellow means no harm by singing the ill-fated return of the Danaans, for people always applaud the latest songs most warmly. Make up your mind to it and bear it; Ulysses is not the only man who never came back from Troy, but many another went down as well as he. Go, then, within the house and busy yourself with your daily duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your servants; for speech is man's matter, and mine above all others- for it is I who am master here."
She went wondering back into the house, and laid her son's saying in her heart. Then, going upstairs with her handmaids into her room, she mourned her dear husband till Minerva shed sweet sleep over her eyes. But the suitors were clamorous throughout the covered cloisters, and prayed each one that he might be her bed fellow.
Then Telemachus spoke, "Shameless," he cried, "and insolent suitors, let us feast at our pleasure now, and let there be no brawling, for it is a rare thing to hear a man with such a divine voice as Phemius has; but in the morning meet me in full assembly that I may give you formal notice to depart, and feast at one another's houses, turn and turn about, at your own cost. If on the other hand you choose to persist in spunging upon one man, heaven help me, but Jove shall reckon with you in full, and when you fall in my father's house there shall be no man to avenge you."
The suitors bit their lips as they heard him, and marvelled at the boldness of his speech. Then, Antinous, son of Eupeithes, said, "The gods seem to have given you lessons in bluster and tall talking; may Jove never grant you to be chief in Ithaca as your father was before you."
Telemachus answered, "Antinous, do not chide with me, but, god willing, I will be chief too if I can. Is this the worst fate you can think of for me? It is no bad thing to be a chief, for it brings both riches and honour. Still, now that Ulysses is dead there are many great men in Ithaca both old and young, and some other may take the lead among them; nevertheless I will be chief in my own house, and will rule those whom Ulysses has won for me."
Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered, "It rests with heaven to decide who shall be chief among us, but you shall be master in your own house and over your own possessions; no one while there is a man in Ithaca shall do you violence nor rob you. And now, my good fellow, I want to know about this stranger. What country does he come from? Of what family is he, and where is his estate? Has he brought you news about the return of your father, or was he on business of his own? He seemed a well-to-do man, but he hurried off so suddenly that he was gone in a moment before we could get to know him."
"My father is dead and gone," answered Telemachus, "and even if some rumour reaches me I put no more faith in it now. My mother does indeed sometimes send for a soothsayer and question him, but I give his prophecyings no heed. As for the stranger, he was Mentes, son of Anchialus, chief of the Taphians, an old friend of my father's." But in his heart he knew that it had been the goddess.
The suitors then returned to their singing and dancing until the evening; but when night fell upon their pleasuring they went home to bed each in his own abode. Telemachus's room was high up in a tower that looked on to the outer court; hither, then, he hied, brooding and full of thought. A good old woman, Euryclea, daughter of Ops, the son of Pisenor, went before him with a couple of blazing torches. Laertes had bought her with his own money when she was quite young; he gave the worth of twenty oxen for her, and shewed as much respect to her in his household as he did to his own wedded wife, but he did not take her to his bed for he feared his wife's resentment. She it was who now lighted Telemachus to his room, and she loved him better than any of the other women in the house did, for she had nursed him when he was a baby. He opened the door of his bed room and sat down upon the bed; as he took off his shirt he gave it to the good old woman, who folded it tidily up, and hung it for him over a peg by his bed side, after which she went out, pulled the door to by a silver catch, and drew the bolt home by means of the strap. But Telemachus as he lay covered with a woollen fleece kept thinking all night through of his intended voyage of the counsel that Minerva had given him.

2005-11-26T12:25:00.000-05:00

The Iliad - Book I
from wikisource.org

Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.
And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest. Now Chryses had come to the ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and had brought with him a great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo wreathed with a suppliant's wreath and he besought the Achaeans, but most of all the two sons of Atreus, who were their chiefs.
"Sons of Atreus," he cried, "and all other Achaeans, may the gods who dwell in Olympus grant you to sack the city of Priam, and to reach your homes in safety; but free my daughter, and accept a ransom for her, in reverence to Apollo, son of Jove."
On this the rest of the Achaeans with one voice were for respecting the priest and taking the ransom that he offered; but not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. "Old man," said he, "let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter. Your sceptre of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing. I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you."
The old man feared him and obeyed. Not a word he spoke, but went by the shore of the sounding sea and prayed apart to King Apollo whom lovely Leto had borne. "Hear me," he cried, "O god of the silver bow, that protectest Chryse and holy Cilla and rulest Tenedos with thy might, hear me oh thou of Sminthe. If I have ever decked your temple with garlands, or burned your thigh-bones in fat of bulls or goats, grant my prayer, and let your arrows avenge these my tears upon the Danaans."
Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer. He came down furious from the summits of Olympus, with his bow and his quiver upon his shoulder, and the arrows rattled on his back with the rage that trembled within him. He sat himself down away from the ships with a face as dark as night, and his silver bow rang death as he shot his arrow in the midst of them. First he smote their mules and their hounds, but presently he aimed his shafts at the people themselves, and all day long the pyres of the dead were burning.
For nine whole days he shot his arrows among the people, but upon the tenth day Achilles called them in assembly- moved thereto by Juno, who saw the Achaeans in their death-throes and had compassion upon them. Then, when they were got together, he rose and spoke among them.
"Son of Atreus," said he, "I deem that we should now turn roving home if we would escape destruction, for we are being cut down by war and pestilence at once. Let us ask some priest or prophet, or some reader of dreams (for dreams, too, are of Jove) who can tell us why Phoebus Apollo is so angry, and say whether it is for some vow that we have broken, or hecatomb that we have not offered, and whether he will accept the savour of lambs and goats without blemish, so as to take away the plague from us."
With these words he sat down, and Calchas son of Thestor, wisest of augurs, who knew things past present and to come, rose to speak. He it was who had guided the Achaeans with their fleet to Ilius, through the prophesyings with which Phoebus Apollo had inspired him. With all sincerity and goodwill he addressed them thus:-
"Achilles, loved of heaven, you bid me tell you about the anger of King Apollo, I will therefore do so; but consider first and swear that you will stand by me heartily in word and deed, for I know that I shall offend one who rules the Argives with might, to whom all the Achaeans are in subjection. A plain man cannot stand against the anger of a king, who if he swallow his displeasure now, will yet nurse revenge till he has wreaked it. Consider, therefore, whether or no you will protect me."
And Achilles answered, "Fear not, but speak as it is borne in upon you from heaven, for by Apollo, Calchas, to whom you pray, and whose oracles you reveal to us, not a Danaan at our ships shall lay his hand upon you, while I yet live to look upon the face of the earth- no, not though you name Agamemnon himself, who is by far the foremost of the Achaeans."
Thereon the seer spoke boldly. "The god," he said, "is angry neither about vow nor hecatomb, but for his priest's sake, whom Agamemnon has dishonoured, in that he would not free his daughter nor take a ransom for her; therefore has he sent these evils upon us, and will yet send others. He will not deliver the Danaans from this pestilence till Agamemnon has restored the girl without fee or ransom to her father, and has sent a holy hecatomb to Chryse. Thus we may perhaps appease him."
With these words he sat down, and Agamemnon rose in anger. His heart was black with rage, and his eyes flashed fire as he scowled on Calchas and said, "Seer of evil, you never yet prophesied smooth things concerning me, but have ever loved to foretell that which was evil. You have brought me neither comfort nor performance; and now you come seeing among Danaans, and saying that Apollo has plagued us because I would not take a ransom for this girl, the daughter of Chryses. I have set my heart on keeping her in my own house, for I love her better even than my own wife Clytemnestra, whose peer she is alike in form and feature, in understanding and accomplishments. Still I will give her up if I must, for I would have the people live, not die; but you must find me a prize instead, or I alone among the Argives shall be without one. This is not well; for you behold, all of you, that my prize is to go elsewhither."
And Achilles answered, "Most noble son of Atreus, covetous beyond all mankind, how shall the Achaeans find you another prize? We have no common store from which to take one. Those we took from the cities have been awarded; we cannot disallow the awards that have been made already. Give this girl, therefore, to the god, and if ever Jove grants us to sack the city of Troy we will requite you three and fourfold."
Then Agamemnon said, "Achilles, valiant though you be, you shall not thus outwit me. You shall not overreach and you shall not persuade me. Are you to keep your own prize, while I sit tamely under my loss and give up the girl at your bidding? Let the Achaeans find me a prize in fair exchange to my liking, or I will come and take your own, or that of Ajax or of Ulysses; and he to whomsoever I may come shall rue my coming. But of this we will take thought hereafter; for the present, let us draw a ship into the sea, and find a crew for her expressly; let us put a hecatomb on board, and let us send Chryseis also; further, let some chief man among us be in command, either Ajax, or Idomeneus, or yourself, son of Peleus, mighty warrior that you are, that we may offer sacrifice and appease the the anger of the god."
Achilles scowled at him and answered, "You are steeped in insolence and lust of gain. With what heart can any of the Achaeans do your bidding, either on foray or in open fighting? I came not warring here for any ill the Trojans had done me. I have no quarrel with them. They have not raided my cattle nor my horses, nor cut down my harvests on the rich plains of Phthia; for between me and them there is a great space, both mountain and sounding sea. We have followed you, Sir Insolence! for your pleasure, not ours- to gain satisfaction from the Trojans for your shameless self and for Menelaus. You forget this, and threaten to rob me of the prize for which I have toiled, and which the sons of the Achaeans have given me. Never when the Achaeans sack any rich city of the Trojans do I receive so good a prize as you do, though it is my hands that do the better part of the fighting. When the sharing comes, your share is far the largest, and I, forsooth, must go back to my ships, take what I can get and be thankful, when my labour of fighting is done. Now, therefore, I shall go back to Phthia; it will be much better for me to return home with my ships, for I will not stay here dishonoured to gather gold and substance for you."
And Agamemnon answered, "Fly if you will, I shall make you no prayers to stay you. I have others here who will do me honour, and above all Jove, the lord of counsel. There is no king here so hateful to me as you are, for you are ever quarrelsome and ill affected. What though you be brave? Was it not heaven that made you so? Go home, then, with your ships and comrades to lord it over the Myrmidons. I care neither for you nor for your anger; and thus will I do: since Phoebus Apollo is taking Chryseis from me, I shall send her with my ship and my followers, but I shall come to your tent and take your own prize Briseis, that you may learn how much stronger I am than you are, and that another may fear to set himself up as equal or comparable with me."
The son of Peleus was furious, and his heart within his shaggy breast was divided whether to draw his sword, push the others aside, and kill the son of Atreus, or to restrain himself and check his anger. While he was thus in two minds, and was drawing his mighty sword from its scabbard, Minerva came down from heaven (for Juno had sent her in the love she bore to them both), and seized the son of Peleus by his yellow hair, visible to him alone, for of the others no man could see her. Achilles turned in amaze, and by the fire that flashed from her eyes at once knew that she was Minerva. "Why are you here," said he, "daughter of aegis-bearing Jove? To see the pride of Agamemnon, son of Atreus? Let me tell you- and it shall surely be- he shall pay for this insolence with his life."
And Minerva said, "I come from heaven, if you will hear me, to bid you stay your anger. Juno has sent me, who cares for both of you alike. Cease, then, this brawling, and do not draw your sword; rail at him if you will, and your railing will not be vain, for I tell you- and it shall surely be- that you shall hereafter receive gifts three times as splendid by reason of this present insult. Hold, therefore, and obey."
"Goddess," answered Achilles, "however angry a man may be, he must do as you two command him. This will be best, for the gods ever hear the prayers of him who has obeyed them."
He stayed his hand on the silver hilt of his sword, and thrust it back into the scabbard as Minerva bade him. Then she went back to Olympus among the other gods, and to the house of aegis-bearing Jove.
But the son of Peleus again began railing at the son of Atreus, for he was still in a rage. "Wine-bibber," he cried, "with the face of a dog and the heart of a hind, you never dare to go out with the host in fight, nor yet with our chosen men in ambuscade. You shun this as you do death itself. You had rather go round and rob his prizes from any man who contradicts you. You devour your people, for you are king over a feeble folk; otherwise, son of Atreus, henceforward you would insult no man. Therefore I say, and swear it with a great oath- nay, by this my sceptre which shalt sprout neither leaf nor shoot, nor bud anew from the day on which it left its parent stem upon the mountains- for the axe stripped it of leaf and bark, and now the sons of the Achaeans bear it as judges and guardians of the decrees of heaven- so surely and solemnly do I swear that hereafter they shall look fondly for Achilles and shall not find him. In the day of your distress, when your men fall dying by the murderous hand of Hector, you shall not know how to help them, and shall rend your heart with rage for the hour when you offered insult to the bravest of the Achaeans."
With this the son of Peleus dashed his gold-bestudded sceptre on the ground and took his seat, while the son of Atreus was beginning fiercely from his place upon the other side. Then uprose smooth-tongued Nestor, the facile speaker of the Pylians, and the words fell from his lips sweeter than honey. Two generations of men born and bred in Pylos had passed away under his rule, and he was now reigning over the third. With all sincerity and goodwill, therefore, he addressed them thus:-
"Of a truth," he said, "a great sorrow has befallen the Achaean land. Surely Priam with his sons would rejoice, and the Trojans be glad at heart if they could hear this quarrel between you two, who are so excellent in fight and counsel. I am older than either of you; therefore be guided by me. Moreover I have been the familiar friend of men even greater than you are, and they did not disregard my counsels. Never again can I behold such men as Pirithous and Dryas shepherd of his people, or as Caeneus, Exadius, godlike Polyphemus, and Theseus son of Aegeus, peer of the immortals. These were the mightiest men ever born upon this earth: mightiest were they, and when they fought the fiercest tribes of mountain savages they utterly overthrew them. I came from distant Pylos, and went about among them, for they would have me come, and I fought as it was in me to do. Not a man now living could withstand them, but they heard my words, and were persuaded by them. So be it also with yourselves, for this is the more excellent way. Therefore, Agamemnon, though you be strong, take not this girl away, for the sons of the Achaeans have already given her to Achilles; and you, Achilles, strive not further with the king, for no man who by the grace of Jove wields a sceptre has like honour with Agamemnon. You are strong, and have a goddess for your mother; but Agamemnon is stronger than you, for he has more people under him. Son of Atreus, check your anger, I implore you; end this quarrel with Achilles, who in the day of battle is a tower of strength to the Achaeans."
And Agamemnon answered, "Sir, all that you have said is true, but this fellow must needs become our lord and master: he must be lord of all, king of all, and captain of all, and this shall hardly be. Granted that the gods have made him a great warrior, have they also given him the right to speak with railing?"
Achilles interrupted him. "I should be a mean coward," he cried, "were I to give in to you in all things. Order other people about, not me, for I shall obey no longer. Furthermore I say- and lay my saying to your heart- I shall fight neither you nor any man about this girl, for those that take were those also that gave. But of all else that is at my ship you shall carry away nothing by force. Try, that others may see; if you do, my spear shall be reddened with your blood."
When they had quarrelled thus angrily, they rose, and broke up the assembly at the ships of the Achaeans. The son of Peleus went back to his tents and ships with the son of Menoetius and his company, while Agamemnon drew a vessel into the water and chose a crew of twenty oarsmen. He escorted Chryseis on board and sent moreover a hecatomb for the god. And Ulysses went as captain.
These, then, went on board and sailed their ways over the sea. But the son of Atreus bade the people purify themselves; so they purified themselves and cast their filth into the sea. Then they offered hecatombs of bulls and goats without blemish on the sea-shore, and the smoke with the savour of their sacrifice rose curling up towards heaven.
Thus did they busy themselves throughout the host. But Agamemnon did not forget the threat that he had made Achilles, and called his trusty messengers and squires Talthybius and Eurybates. "Go," said he, "to the tent of Achilles, son of Peleus; take Briseis by the hand and bring her hither; if he will not give her I shall come with others and take her- which will press him harder."
He charged them straightly further and dismissed them, whereon they went their way sorrowfully by the seaside, till they came to the tents and ships of the Myrmidons. They found Achilles sitting by his tent and his ships, and ill-pleased he was when he beheld them. They stood fearfully and reverently before him, and never a word did they speak, but he knew them and said, "Welcome, heralds, messengers of gods and men; draw near; my quarrel is not with you but with Agamemnon who has sent you for the girl Briseis. Therefore, Patroclus, bring her and give her to them, but let them be witnesses by the blessed gods, by mortal men, and by the fierceness of Agamemnon's anger, that if ever again there be need of me to save the people from ruin, they shall seek and they shall not find. Agamemnon is mad with rage and knows not how to look before and after that the Achaeans may fight by their ships in safety."
Patroclus did as his dear comrade had bidden him. He brought Briseis from the tent and gave her over to the heralds, who took her with them to the ships of the Achaeans- and the woman was loth to go. Then Achilles went all alone by the side of the hoar sea, weeping and looking out upon the boundless waste of waters. He raised his hands in prayer to his immortal mother, "Mother," he cried, "you bore me doomed to live but for a little season; surely Jove, who thunders from Olympus, might have made that little glorious. It is not so. Agamemnon, son of Atreus, has done me dishonour, and has robbed me of my prize by force."
As he spoke he wept aloud, and his mother heard him where she was sitting in the depths of the sea hard by the old man her father. Forthwith she rose as it were a grey mist out of the waves, sat down before him as he stood weeping, caressed him with her hand, and said, "My son, why are you weeping? What is it that grieves you? Keep it not from me, but tell me, that we may know it together."
Achilles drew a deep sigh and said, "You know it; why tell you what you know well already? We went to Thebe the strong city of Eetion, sacked it, and brought hither the spoil. The sons of the Achaeans shared it duly among themselves, and chose lovely Chryseis as the meed of Agamemnon; but Chryses, priest of Apollo, came to the ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and brought with him a great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo, wreathed with a suppliant's wreath, and he besought the Achaeans, but most of all the two sons of Atreus who were their chiefs.
"On this the rest of the Achaeans with one voice were for respecting the priest and taking the ransom that he offered; but not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. So he went back in anger, and Apollo, who loved him dearly, heard his prayer. Then the god sent a deadly dart upon the Argives, and the people died thick on one another, for the arrows went everywhither among the wide host of the Achaeans. At last a seer in the fulness of his knowledge declared to us the oracles of Apollo, and I was myself first to say that we should appease him. Whereon the son of Atreus rose in anger, and threatened that which he has since done. The Achaeans are now taking the girl in a ship to Chryse, and sending gifts of sacrifice to the god; but the heralds have just taken from my tent the daughter of Briseus, whom the Achaeans had awarded to myself.
"Help your brave son, therefore, if you are able. Go to Olympus, and if you have ever done him service in word or deed, implore the aid of Jove. Ofttimes in my father's house have I heard you glory in that you alone of the immortals saved the son of Saturn from ruin, when the others, with Juno, Neptune, and Pallas Minerva would have put him in bonds. It was you, goddess, who delivered him by calling to Olympus the hundred-handed monster whom gods call Briareus, but men Aegaeon, for he is stronger even than his father; when therefore he took his seat all-glorious beside the son of Saturn, the other gods were afraid, and did not bind him. Go, then, to him, remind him of all this, clasp his knees, and bid him give succour to the Trojans. Let the Achaeans be hemmed in at the sterns of their ships, and perish on the sea-shore, that they may reap what joy they may of their king, and that Agamemnon may rue his blindness in offering insult to the foremost of the Achaeans."
Thetis wept and answered, "My son, woe is me that I should have borne or suckled you. Would indeed that you had lived your span free from all sorrow at your ships, for it is all too brief; alas, that you should be at once short of life and long of sorrow above your peers: woe, therefore, was the hour in which I bore you; nevertheless I will go to the snowy heights of Olympus, and tell this tale to Jove, if he will hear our prayer: meanwhile stay where you are with your ships, nurse your anger against the Achaeans, and hold aloof from fight. For Jove went yesterday to Oceanus, to a feast among the Ethiopians, and the other gods went with him. He will return to Olympus twelve days hence; I will then go to his mansion paved with bronze and will beseech him; nor do I doubt that I shall be able to persuade him."
On this she left him, still furious at the loss of her that had been taken from him. Meanwhile Ulysses reached Chryse with the hecatomb. When they had come inside the harbour they furled the sails and laid them in the ship's hold; they slackened the forestays, lowered the mast into its place, and rowed the ship to the place where they would have her lie; there they cast out their mooring-stones and made fast the hawsers. They then got out upon the sea-shore and landed the hecatomb for Apollo; Chryseis also left the ship, and Ulysses led her to the altar to deliver her into the hands of her father. "Chryses," said he, "King Agamemnon has sent me to bring you back your child, and to offer sacrifice to Apollo on behalf of the Danaans, that we may propitiate the god, who has now brought sorrow upon the Argives."
So saying he gave the girl over to her father, who received her gladly, and they ranged the holy hecatomb all orderly round the altar of the god. They washed their hands and took up the barley-meal to sprinkle over the victims, while Chryses lifted up his hands and prayed aloud on their behalf. "Hear me," he cried, "O god of the silver bow, that protectest Chryse and holy Cilla, and rulest Tenedos with thy might. Even as thou didst hear me aforetime when I prayed, and didst press hardly upon the Achaeans, so hear me yet again, and stay this fearful pestilence from the Danaans."
Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer. When they had done praying and sprinkling the barley-meal, they drew back the heads of the victims and killed and flayed them. They cut out the thigh-bones, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, set some pieces of raw meat on the top of them, and then Chryses laid them on the wood fire and poured wine over them, while the young men stood near him with five-pronged spits in their hands. When the thigh-bones were burned and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest up small, put the pieces upon the spits, roasted them till they were done, and drew them off: then, when they had finished their work and the feast was ready, they ate it, and every man had his full share, so that all were satisfied. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, pages filled the mixing-bowl with wine and water and handed it round, after giving every man his drink-offering.
Thus all day long the young men worshipped the god with song, hymning him and chaunting the joyous paean, and the god took pleasure in their voices; but when the sun went down, and it came on dark, they laid themselves down to sleep by the stern cables of the ship, and when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared they again set sail for the host of the Achaeans. Apollo sent them a fair wind, so they raised their mast and hoisted their white sails aloft. As the sail bellied with the wind the ship flew through the deep blue water, and the foam hissed against her bows as she sped onward. When they reached the wide-stretching host of the Achaeans, they drew the vessel ashore, high and dry upon the sands, set her strong props beneath her, and went their ways to their own tents and ships.
But Achilles abode at his ships and nursed his anger. He went not to the honourable assembly, and sallied not forth to fight, but gnawed at his own heart, pining for battle and the war-cry.
Now after twelve days the immortal gods came back in a body to Olympus, and Jove led the way. Thetis was not unmindful of the charge her son had laid upon her, so she rose from under the sea and went through great heaven with early morning to Olympus, where she found the mighty son of Saturn sitting all alone upon its topmost ridges. She sat herself down before him, and with her left hand seized his knees, while with her right she caught him under the chin, and besought him, saying-
"Father Jove, if I ever did you service in word or deed among the immortals, hear my prayer, and do honour to my son, whose life is to be cut short so early. King Agamemnon has dishonoured him by taking his prize and keeping her. Honour him then yourself, Olympian lord of counsel, and grant victory to the Trojans, till the Achaeans give my son his due and load him with riches in requital."
Jove sat for a while silent, and without a word, but Thetis still kept firm hold of his knees, and besought him a second time. "Incline your head," said she, "and promise me surely, or else deny me- for you have nothing to fear- that I may learn how greatly you disdain me."
At this Jove was much troubled and answered, "I shall have trouble if you set me quarrelling with Juno, for she will provoke me with her taunting speeches; even now she is always railing at me before the other gods and accusing me of giving aid to the Trojans. Go back now, lest she should find out. I will consider the matter, and will bring it about as wish. See, I incline my head that you believe me. This is the most solemn that I can give to any god. I never recall my word, or deceive, or fail to do what I say, when I have nodded my head."
As he spoke the son of Saturn bowed his dark brows, and the ambrosial locks swayed on his immortal head, till vast Olympus reeled.
When the pair had thus laid their plans, they parted- Jove to his house, while the goddess quitted the splendour of Olympus, and plunged into the depths of the sea. The gods rose from their seats, before the coming of their sire. Not one of them dared to remain sitting, but all stood up as he came among them. There, then, he took his seat. But Juno, when she saw him, knew that he and the old merman's daughter, silver-footed Thetis, had been hatching mischief, so she at once began to upbraid him. "Trickster," she cried, "which of the gods have you been taking into your counsels now? You are always settling matters in secret behind my back, and have never yet told me, if you could help it, one word of your intentions."
"Juno," replied the sire of gods and men, "you must not expect to be informed of all my counsels. You are my wife, but you would find it hard to understand them. When it is proper for you to hear, there is no one, god or man, who will be told sooner, but when I mean to keep a matter to myself, you must not pry nor ask questions."
"Dread son of Saturn," answered Juno, "what are you talking about? I? Pry and ask questions? Never. I let you have your own way in everything. Still, I have a strong misgiving that the old merman's daughter Thetis has been talking you over, for she was with you and had hold of your knees this self-same morning. I believe, therefore, that you have been promising her to give glory to Achilles, and to kill much people at the ships of the Achaeans."
"Wife," said Jove, "I can do nothing but you suspect me and find it out. You will take nothing by it, for I shall only dislike you the more, and it will go harder with you. Granted that it is as you say; I mean to have it so; sit down and hold your tongue as I bid you for if I once begin to lay my hands about you, though all heaven were on your side it would profit you nothing."
On this Juno was frightened, so she curbed her stubborn will and sat down in silence. But the heavenly beings were disquieted throughout the house of Jove, till the cunning workman Vulcan began to try and pacify his mother Juno. "It will be intolerable," said he, "if you two fall to wrangling and setting heaven in an uproar about a pack of mortals. If such ill counsels are to prevail, we shall have no pleasure at our banquet. Let me then advise my mother- and she must herself know that it will be better- to make friends with my dear father Jove, lest he again scold her and disturb our feast. If the Olympian Thunderer wants to hurl us all from our seats, he can do so, for he is far the strongest, so give him fair words, and he will then soon be in a good humour with us."
As he spoke, he took a double cup of nectar, and placed it in his mother's hand. "Cheer up, my dear mother," said he, "and make the best of it. I love you dearly, and should be very sorry to see you get a thrashing; however grieved I might be, I could not help for there is no standing against Jove. Once before when I was trying to help you, he caught me by the foot and flung me from the heavenly threshold. All day long from morn till eve, was I falling, till at sunset I came to ground in the island of Lemnos, and there I lay, with very little life left in me, till the Sintians came and tended me."
Juno smiled at this, and as she smiled she took the cup from her son's hands. Then Vulcan drew sweet nectar from the mixing-bowl, and served it round among the gods, going from left to right; and the blessed gods laughed out a loud applause as they saw him ing bustling about the heavenly mansion.
Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun they feasted, and every one had his full share, so that all were satisfied. Apollo struck his lyre, and the Muses lifted up their sweet voices, calling and answering one another. But when the sun's glorious light had faded, they went home to bed, each in his own abode, which lame Vulcan with his consummate skill had fashioned for them. So Jove, the Olympian Lord of Thunder, hied him to the bed in which he always slept; and when he had got on to it he went to sleep, with Juno of the golden throne by his side.